


To Live a Life

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Series: When Tommy met Alfie AU [28]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Head Injury, Hospitalization, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-08-07 20:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16415507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Tommy is gravely injured in an accident, and Alfie struggles to keep himself from falling apart as he’s left to deal with the aftermath.When Tommy eventually wakes up, they set out on a dwindling road to recovery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In response to this request from Tumblr: Hi! Firstly you're amazing and your writing makes me feel things in every part of my body. So I'd love to see Tommy and Alfie in the 3 months following Tommy's insane head injury in season 3. I think it would be incredibly difficult for Tommy to grapple with his limitations in that period, and a really patient and gentle Alfie. Would love to see some issues with speech/memory which is tough for Tommy who's normally so razor sharp. PILE on the h/c!! You're amazing!
> 
> This piece is set within the Homeward bound series part of this AU. But this can definitely be read on its own. (the only thing you really need to know is that Charlie’s got a stuffed dog confusedly named Horse. Important info)

 

”And everything’s okay then?” Alfie repeats the question for about the hundredth time. “See, I think he might be coming down with a cold, so he should probably be staying indoors. If it’s too cold outside, right? Might get a bit bored, but-”

“Everything’s absolutely fine, mister Solomons,” Edith says firmly. “Fit as a fiddle, he is. And Esme’s here with their kids as well, so we’ve been keeping ourselves busy. But I’m sure he’d like to tell you himself-” Edith’s voice becomes distant as she calls out, “Charlie, why don’t you come and say hi to your daddy? He’s being a bother.”

Alfie can almost see before him how Charlie comes running on those tiny little legs, his stuffed dog clasped in his arms and with a toothy smile on his face. His heart makes this strange sort of twist in his chest. Fucks sake, a few hours away from that kid and he’s already in a state… You’d think, after two months, that he should be fucking used leaving Charlie for the day. But his brain refuses to listen to that sort of logic. 

“Daddy!”

“Hi there Charlie.” Alfie is grinning from ear to ear now. “You having a good time with your cousins?”

“Yes. Playing horse!”

“And you’re being good for Edith and aunt Esme too?”

“Mhm, I’m always good.”

After telling Alfie a bit more about his day, in a more or less coherent manner, Charlie apparently decides it’s time to hang up.

“Daddy, I’m going now,” he states firmly. “Say hi to papa.”

“Yeah, I’ll say hi to papa from you, love. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye!”

There’s a bang, and Alfie suspects that Charlie has just dropped the earpiece and left it hanging off the desk. Soon, Edith picks it up, and she once again reassures him that yes, everything’s absolutely fine and whatever Charlie decides to get up to for the remainder of the afternoon, it’s all well within her area of expertise, so things will most likely _continue_ to be absolutely fine until he and Tommy get home-

When they eventually hang up, Alfie’s got a distinct feeling that she thinks he’s being paranoid. Fucking ridiculous. He glares up at the ceiling. It’s not his fucking fault he’s bad at this ‘relinquishing control’ bit… Clearly, this is a fact someone should’ve told him before having a child, that it turns you into this ‘frazzled mess’ -something Tommy had the audacity to call him the other day…

Did he tell Edith where Charlie’s winter coat is? He put that away a few days ago, but now the weather’s suddenly gone fucking freezing again and perhaps he should-  No. For fucks sake he needs to get ahold of himself.

Deciding to give up on the paperwork for now, Alfie leaves the desk to see if his husband can provide with some adequate distraction. He steers his steps from the building where the office is situated towards the stables, in search of Tommy

As expected, he finds him standing in one of the enclosures, letting Azra run laps around him while holding onto the lunge line. May is stood by the fence, observing the pair.

“How’s the wicked creature doing?” Alfie grunts and watches with wary eyes as the black horse picks up the pace, white puffs of fog escaping the nostrils as the hooves thunder against the ground. 

“Better, I think,” May says. “Still doesn’t like people coming too close, but he’s much calmer. We’re going to try and move him to one of the smaller paddocks now.”

Azra has slowed his gait to a trot. Tommy stays right where he is, doesn’t tug on the line, just allows for him to come at his own pace. Slowly, the horse approaches him and lets Tommy lead him towards the gate.

Tommy offers Alfie the tiniest hint of a smile in greeting, but keeps his attention fixed on Azra. Alfie is silent while they lead the horse to the smaller paddock right next to the stable, where he’s let loose. The creature looks around, seemingly confused at his sudden change in environment. Takes a few wary steps. Huffs loudly and shakes his mane. Then he settles for just shoving his head into a pile of hay.

It’s not until Tommy exits and closes the gate behind him that Alfie realises he’s been holding his breath for a very long time.

“Do you really think it’s worth it?” he wonders, nodding towards Azra, who is still occupied with his hay. Deceptively calm. “Fuck knows how that creature’s ever going to run a proper race. Can’t even have someone on his back. My bet’s even the bloody starting pistol will give him a fucking fit.”

“You’ve seen him run. We just get that head of his in order and he’ll be a fine horse,” Tommy says with utter certainty. “But why don’t you consult the expert?” He nods towards May as he lights a cigarette.

May’s eyes are still on Azra, who’s given up on the hay and is trotting in circles around the enclosure, clearly trying to understand his new space. Fucking restless, that animal… God knows how May caught wind of him. One day she just turned up and told Tommy there was this horse that he just _had_ to take a look at. Alfie was against the whole thing from the beginning. It doesn’t seem logical, does it, putting in so many hours of work just to get a horse to stop viciously biting anyone coming within three feet of it.

“If it keeps going in this direction I’d say you have a very fine race horse in a few months.” May sounds just as certain as Tommy, and Alfie knows when to admit defeat. 

“I’ll take your word for it miss Carlton,” he grunts, before turning his attention to Tommy, offering an arm to him. “Now, if we’ve finished with that basket-case of a horse… Will such a radiant beauty do an old man the honour of accompanying him on a walk? Seeing as this is such a fine afternoon?”

Tommy rolls his eyes, but naturally takes him up on the offer, following as Alfie wanders over the yard. Azra has gone back to his hay again, but every little unexpected sound makes his head snap up. Yeah, Alfie’s still skepticalalright. Doesn’t matter how fucking fast a horse can run if you can’t even put a fucking saddle on it…  

“You’re still thinking about the horse,” Tommy states after a moment and breaks him out of his thoughts. “You’ve been quiet for well over ten seconds now. 

Alfie hums.

“Been over a month, and he still fucking pounces at everything.”  
“It takes time, these things.” Tommy says, a distant look creeping into his eyes. “He’s just… afraid. That’s all.”

Alfie decides to drop the subject for now. Tommy knows something about that, being afraid. Lashing out at everything. If he wants to pour his time into trying to fix this horse, Alfie is happy to indulge him. He reckons it’s a pretty healthy occupation for someone like Tommy. And there’s always this light shining in his eyes when he’s around the horses, so Alfie’s not about to go and ruin that…

They walk in silence for a bit, ending up stood by the fence bordering one of the larger fields, the one stretching all the way to the distant woodlands. It’s early spring, but one of those days when the winter chill is still lingering in the air. Entirely too cold and damp, Alfie’s decided. Rubbish weather for his back. But Tommy closes his eyes and leans against the fence, taking a moment to enjoy the sun while sucking in the last drag on his cigarette.

Wrapping one of his arms around his waist, Alfie pulls him closer against his side. And Tommy rests his head on his shoulder.  

There’s a bird singing somewhere in the distance, the sound traveling with the light breeze. Alfie isn’t so bothered by the critters anymore… Perhaps he’s just getting used to them? Back in Camden, he got so used to the traffic outside his office that he couldn’t even hear it anymore. Could be something similar, this… And it’s admittedly a quite pleasant thing to be used to. All of this.  

“Suppose we’d better get back to work.” Tommy eventually says and Alfie hums in reluctant agreement, letting himself be pulled away from the fence as they begin making their way back towards the stables.

“Had a word with Charlie earlier,” Alfie tells him. “I’m to extend a very enthusiastic hello to you.”

“Poor Edith.” Tommy let’s out a snort. “Can’t be easy, having you badgering her at all hours.”

Alfie huffs. The fucking nerve…  “I’ll have you know that I do nothing of the sort. I just-“

He notices the shift in Tommy’s body before he sees the reason behind it. Feels his arm tense up, hears the slight hitch in his breath.

One of the stable hands, a young lad, Alfie can’t remember his fucking name right now- is struggling with a very reluctant Azra out on the stable yard.

“Why the fuck are they trying to move him?” Tommy mutters under his breath and lets go of Alfie’s hand, lengthening his steps. When Azra begins pulling violently at the reins, he runs, at a speed Alfie could never hope to match even on his best days.

Tommy reaches the struggling pair far earlier than him.

It’ll be fine- Tommy’s got it under control. Always does, doesn’t he, when horses are involved?

The stable hand is still hanging onto the reins, but he turns when Tommy approaches them; walking now, hands outstretched. Calm. He’s saying something to the lad, holding up his hands in a soothing gesture-

Alfie is close enough to hear him now.

“Jasper, let go of the reins. He’s terrified.”

“He’ll bolt if I let him go!”

“Then let him.” 

Jasper still doesn’t listen, he seems completely petrified.

Everything happens so fast.

A loud bang rings through the silence. A car backfiring. Or someone poaching in the distance. Fuck if Alfie knows- The whole thing is over before he can fully understand what happens. Azra neighs, throwing his head backwards, dragging Jasper along with him by the reins as he rears up.

And Tommy is suddenly far too close.

The kick hits him in the chest and sends him crashing down onto the gravel, air knocked out of his lungs and gasping for breaths… Had Alfie been closer, just a little bit closer, he would’ve been there in time to pull Tommy away- horse hooves be damned- but he’s too fucking far away, and he thinks that he yells for Jasper to let go of the _fucking_ reins-

Azra rears up again, eyes wild, recoiling from the perceived threat holding him captive. And Tommy is on the ground, and he’s too close and-

Alfie has heard the sound of a skull cracking far more times than what should be reasonable within one lifetime. It’s this sickening, crunching sort of sound. Bad enough to hear in any fucking situation. Now it fucking cuts into his ears, pierces his brain, as the large hoof smashes into Tommy’s head.

You shouldn’t scream around horses. Tommy’s always on him about that: keeping his voice down around the jittery fucking creatures-

But he screams now. At least he thinks he does. There’s this sort of ringing filling his entire brain and he can’t bloody hear- 

Jasper lets go of the reins. Azra sets off in a gallop across the yard, leaving for the people now gathering there to handle it.

Alfie kneels in the puddle of blood already forming around Tommy’s head.

Fuck, there’s so much blood-

There’s so much blood and the wet, crunching sound is droning in his head-

Tommy is slumped on his side, eyes closed and face growing paler by the second. 

“Tommy?” He trails shaking fingers down his neck, searching for the flicker of a pulse. It’s there. _Good, that’s good, everything will be okay then-_ Still breathing, he’s still breathing. Alfie shakes him gently, not enough to jostle his head. “Tommy? Hey, come on-“ 

Tommy’s eyes remain closed.

“For fucks sake, get help!” Alfie barks at Jasper, who just stands there like a fucking idiot.

A hand lands on his shoulder. May is standing over him, looking down at the gruesome scene.

“I’ve told one of the men to bring the car around.”

“Just make sure that fucking horse stays put. And get me something to stop the bleeding with.” 

Alfie has no idea to where the horse has run off to, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck. As long as he stays far away from Tommy- 

A groan brings his attention back to Tommy, whose eyes flicker open just a fraction. Alfie sucks in a breath, the rope around his chest loosening slightly.

“Tommy, can you hear me?”

“Alfie-“ Tommy’s face is laden with pain, his hand shooting up to frantically grasp after something to hold onto. Alfie takes it.

“It’ll be alright, love, I’m here. Right here.”

Tommy shifts, tries to sit up, but Alfie keeps him still. “No, no you’ll have to stay there, alright? Everything will be okay. I’ll take care of it.”

Eyes slipping closed again, Tommy grows completely still on the gravel.

Finally, someone shows up with a car.

May drives, while Alfie sits in the back with Tommy, holding his head still in his lap. Despite pressing a rag against the wound, the blood is still spilling everywhere, warm trickles and rivers that seep down his legs.

Tommy wakes up briefly somewhere along the way, clutching Alfie’s hand.

“Alfie-“

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here, love. We’re getting you to the hospital-“

Tommy’s squeezes his hand, a gurgling sound escaping his throat as he tries to say something. He pulls weakly at his hand, urging him to come closer. 

“There’s a bleeding somewhere in my brain,” he rasps out, eyes locking onto Alfie’s. Remarkably sharp, suddenly. “Must be. And- after the surgery. If something goes wrong-” He swallows thickly, the grip on Alfie’s hand growing weaker by the second. “You- you have to promise… That’s not- not a real life. Just being some fucking shell. I can’t-“ 

The implications dawn on Alfie and he wants to shake Tommy. Scream at him. Fucking demand that he take the words back because how the fuck can he say something like that?

He just hushes him gently instead, leaning down to press a kiss against his forehead. “Shh, love- It’ll be alright. All of it. Nothing to worry about. You’ll be fine.“

Tommy coughs, drawing shaky breaths.

“No, you have to promise. I don’t- I can’t end up like that. You have to-”

“You’re not- fucking hell, of course you’re not. No, see because they’re going to fix you right back up and –“

For the briefest of moments, Tommy grips his hand roughly. Convulsively. Alfie forces himself to meet his gaze and face the pain there.

“You have to promise you won’t let me waste away in some hospital bed. Promise-”

Alfie never could say no to those eyes, could he? He hears himself utter the words, as if it’s someone else saying them.

“I promise.”

Something akin to relief washes over Tommy’s face. The hand holding Alfie’s grows slack.

And then he closes his eyes.

…

Alfie can’t remember how he ends up in the hospital corridor. But May is there. Tommy isn’t. They wheeled him off to surgery. Ripped him out of Alfie’s arms and left him with nothing but that blood soaked rag.

“I need to call-“ Arthur, John, Edith, needs to tell her- she needs to stay for the night. Usually doesn’t do that. But now Charlie needs her. Charlie… How is he going to tell Charlie? If Tommy dies, how is he-

They don’t have enough photos of Tommy… Charlie is still so little, is he going to remember? Alfie will have to sit with him, look at those photos of Tommy and tell him. _Yeah, that’s our wedding. Wasn’t in a church or anything, but it was still a wedding._

_Can’t see it in the photos Charlie, but your papa had beautiful blue eyes- do you remember that?_

Do you remember that he used to read you bedtime stories?

“I’ll take care of everything, just stay here,” May says. He’s already forgotten what he asked.

Alfie stares down at the floor. Tries to breathe. In and out. But his chest is too tight. And something is crawling inside his head, prickling at it-

He clutches his knees, just to have something to do with his hands…

Arthur is the first one to show up, muddy boots on his feet and eyes just a fraction too wide. Alfie stands on unsteady legs to meet him.

Arthur doesn’t say a word, just pulls him into a hug that is too tight and too stiff. Eventually, Alfie gets his limbs to cooperate enough to return it. John appears just moments after his older brother, jaw clenched tight and face ashen. 

“It’s going to be alright,” Arthur says firmly, gaining a nod from John. Alfie just sits down on the bench again.

Polly comes next, with Finn. Ada is on her way up from London, they tell him. Soon, they’ll all be there in that hospital corridor.

They’ve been sitting together in far too many of those over the years. 

A doctor finally shows up.

Alfie tries to decipher his expression as he walks towards them down the corridor, mouth set in a grim line and brow creased. Is that how people look when they’re about to tell a family one of them has just died?

Alfie has to swallow down sour bile that fills his throat, and his legs are so weak and he needs Tommy to be there and tell him that everything will be okay-

“The surgery went as planned,” the doctor says calmly. “But we can’t say much about his condition at the moment. We’ll have to wait and see if he wakes up.”

 _If._ Not when. _Who- who the fuck says that?_ If. Of course Tommy will wake up- Fucking of course he will.

“What sort of consequences could this have ?” Polly’s voice is calm. Steady. She sounds as if she’s been having conversations like this all her life. 

“Well, head trauma is a complicated thing, so there are a number of them,” the doctor says. “He might be blind. Or be completely paralyzed-“ He just fucking continues listing things and Alfie clenches his hands into fists. That ringing sound is back, drowning out most of the words. “Hard to tell with these things. And recovery might take months so-“

“But he’ll _live_?” John cuts him off. Thank fuck. 

The doctor is silent. For much, much longer than he reasonably should be. Or maybe he’s talking and Alfie’s head has just stopped working-

“It’s too early to tell.” He sounds so fucking indifferent. The anger bubbles under Alfie’s skin, smouldering, scorching all his veins. He needs Tommy to be here. Needs him to say that everything will be alright. Think straight for him. Be here with his bright, unwavering eyes and calmly tell the doctor and _all_ of them that _of course_ everything will be alright-   

“Can we see him?” Arthur wonders, and the look he casts at Alfie doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I’m afraid not. We-“ The doctor explains why. But Alfie can’t hear him. 

Because something inside his head just… snaps. Like flicking a switch and turning the light off. Cutting a wire. And everything goes completely black. 

Alfie might be quick, but Arthur is somehow quicker and his fist never hits its mark –that spot right between the doctor’s dead fucking eyes-

Arthur tries to hold him back. “Hey, hey, calm down-“

“You’re going to fucking stand there and tell me I can’t see him?” Alfie shouts. Is he shouting? Or is it all in his head? “That- that he could be fucking dying- that maybe he’ll never wake up and- I can’t fucking see him?“

The doctor’s eyes are wide. Finally showing some sort of emotion.

Someone else grabs him, helping Arthur drag him backwards. He hears John’s voice, repeating Arthur’s soothing phrases.

Then, suddenly, Alfie finds himself outside in the cold night air, back leaned against the rough brick wall. Arthur is standing in front of him and John is seated on the sidewalk, already having lit a cigarette somehow.

“Fucks sake, mate,” Arthur sighs. “I’m not going to tell you to calm down, but try not to punch the fucking doctor.”

Alfie tries to imagine Tommy. He’d tell him something along those lines…

So he nods.

The anger has faded. Now he just feels numb. Completely fucking numb.

Polly has apparently worked some sort of magic while he was gone, because he gets to see Tommy.

Part of him almost wishes he hadn’t.

He’s seen his fair share of gruesome sights, but Tommy in that hospital bed is somehow the worst of them all. A metal construction has been built around his head, keeping him pinned like an insect, and his skin is the same colour as the sheets he’s resting on, contrasting starkly against the angry red line running along the side of his skull. Alfie wants to rip that fucking metal off, pick Tommy up and carry him out of there. Bring him home. Where it’s safe and warm and there’s no morgue lurking just a few stories down.

Can’t exactly do that, now, can he? But he can sit here and wait.

He stays seated on that chair longer than he has the capacity to understand. Must’ve been hours. Fucking days… Eventually he begins drifting in and out of a restless sleep.

“Edith’s on the phone for you.”

It’s the hand on his shoulder rather than the words that make him snap out of the daze. Ada has already turned her gaze towards her brother.  
When did she turn up here?

Alfie just barely gets his legs to cooperate enough to leave the room

“Yeah?” Has his voice always been this gravelly?

“Charlie wonders where you are,” Edith says. “I’ve tried to explain. But it was hard enough putting him to bed yesterday-“ Yesterday… has it been over a day already? “And I’m not sure how he’ll cope tonight. Maybe you could talk to him? I just put him down for his nap, but maybe-”

“Have you told him what happened?”

“I didn’t want to make him more upset.”

“Yeah- yeah, no, that’s probably-“ Alfie trails off, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Call when he wakes up. I’ll talk to him.”

Ada is still in the room when he returns, standing by Tommy’s bedside with her arms tightly clasped over her chest.

“I’ve just spoken to the doctor,” she says. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but maybe you should go home? I’ll stay with him for a bit.”

Alfie swallows.

“I- I need to be here when he wakes up.”

Just the thought of Tommy waking up all alone in a strange room, pinned into a fucking metal cage… Alfie needs to be there. He’ll be scared. And the room is so dark. Tommy doesn’t like the dark. Not as terrified as he used to be of it, but he still doesn’t _like_ it. So Alfie needs to be there, doesn’t he? Tell him he’s safe. 

“Alfie-” Ada lays a hand on his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts again.  “You’ve got a son. Who misses you.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “And if Tommy was awake, he’d roll his fucking eyes at you and tell you to go home, because he’ll be here when you get back. It could be days before he wakes up.”

Alfie sinks back down into the chair. “Yeah, I’ll go home. Just- I’ll go home in a bit, alright?“

Every moment he stays here is another moment when Tommy might wake up.

Ada gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze before leaving the room.

There’s another phone call, later. Could be hours, could be an entire day later.

“I’ve got someone here who’d like to talk to you,” Edith says, and her tone tells Alfie Charlie’s there right next to her.

“Daddy?”

Alfie clears his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. “Hi Charlie.”

“When’re you coming home?”

“Really soon, love.”

The line is silent. “When’s soon?”

It could take days before Tommy wakes up.

If Tommy was awake, he’d tell him- Alfie swallows thickly. “I’ll be home in time for your bedtime story. Alright?”

He can hear the smile in Charlie’s voice when he answers, “That’s really soon!”

And so, Alfie goes home.

The house is quiet when he enters. His head has also gone oddly quiet. Numb. He feels completely fucking numb. Dragging his heavy feet over the floor, he goes upstairs, where he hears Edith’s voice coming from Charlie’s bedroom. He’s just about to go in when he realises he’s still wearing clothes that are soaked through with Tommy’s blood. The clothes end up in the bin. Then he scrubs himself until the skin is sore and red.

Edith is sat next to Charlie’s bed, reading his favourite story to him, with Cyril snoozing peacefully at her feet. When Charlie sees Alfie, his entire face lights up

“Daddy!” He clambers out of bed and runs towards him, dragging his stuffed dog along the floor by its paw. Alfie picks him up. Buries his nose against his neck as he hugs him tightly Charlie squeals as the beard tickles him. 

Edith silently slips out of the room, her hand coming to rest ever so lightly on his arm in passing.

“Where’s papa?”

Charlie looks towards the door, as if Tommy will just turn up there. Fuck. Fuck, he can’t do this. He swallows down the lump that seems to have permanently lodged itself in his throat, seating himself on the edge of Charlie’s bed and settling him back against his pillow.  

“Papa isn’t home right now, love,” he croaks, struggling to regain his voice. “He got hurt, and he’s in a place where they can take care of him.”

Charlie frowns.

“We can take care.”

“We will,” Alfie promises. Swallows again and somehow manages to smile. Hopefully it looks better than it feels. “He’ll get to come home in a bit. And then we’ll take care of him, won’t we? But right now he needs to be there. They got really nice people there who’ll look after him for us. Okay?”

Charlie nods slowly, clutching Horse a little tighter to his chest. “Okay,” he says hesitantly.

Alfie picks up the book and begins reading, stroking him gently over the hair as he sees the lingering worry melt from his face.

He stays by Charlie’s bedside long after he’s fallen asleep, and when he eventually does rise to his feet, they won’t carry him further than the armchair in the corner of the room. Because facing the reality of an empty bed is fucking impossible.

…

It takes a few days before Charlie fully understands the situation. He asks every morning where Tommy is, and has to be reminded. Alfie continues going to the hospital. Every single day, he goes there just to sit by Tommy’s bedside. And every day, he feels the tiny flicker of hope in his chest fade a little bit.

_You have to promise you won’t let me waste away in some hospital bed._

_He promised, didn’t he?_

And every day when he comes in through the door, Charlie greets him with the same questions. _Where’s papa? Is papa not coming home?_ That frown still returns when Alfie reminds him, but he accepts it each time, and is soon showing Alfie new drawing he’s made, or telling him about all the things he and Edith have been playing.

He doesn’t understand.

…

Charlie’s cries startle Alfie awake. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he mutters instinctively as he sits up. Because it always takes a while before he remembers: The spot next to him on the bed is empty. He has to relive that pang in his chest every time he wakes up and reality catches up to him.

Charlie is sitting up in the bed, Horse clasped tightly to his chest and cheeks wet with tears. The cries feel like knives burying themselves in his heart. 

Alfie picks him up and holds him tightly, feeling the tears soak through his shirt as Charlie buries his face against his shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay…” he whispers and rocks him gently. “It’s okay love… Did you have a bad dream?”

“Want papa to be home!” Charlie wails, clutching his shirt convulsively with tiny fists.

“Me too, love. He’ll be home soon.”

“Want him to be home _now_!” Charlie cries, sobbing violently enough for his small body to quake with the force of it. He can’t manage anymore words after that. Alfie carries him back to his and Tommy’s bedroom, hushing and soothing all the way. Charlie is absolutely inconsolable, screaming and crying and kicking. So Alfie begins to sing quietly. Some old melody his own mother hummed to him when he was little. Charlie curls up in his arms, the sobs eventually quietening.

Alfie doesn’t carry him back to his own room, tucking him in under all the blankets and duvets in his and Tommy’s bed instead.

He lies awake for a long time, listening to his breaths in the dark.

 

…

The days pass in a daze. Charlie still asks about Tommy, but it’s different now. He asks when papa can come home from that place he’s in. Why he’s been asleep for so long. If he really, _really_ is just sleeping.

Alfie continues making the hour long drive every day to sit by Tommy’s bedside. Reads quietly to him. Holds his hand. Prays more than he’s got any right to. Because he hopes that despite past sins, someone might listen. Maybe for Charlie’s sake. What sort of God would take away a child’s father? It’s a question Alfie quickly pushes aside, because he knows. He’s seen. But he prays, still.

The rest of the family comes and goes. All of them. Ada is staying with Polly in Birmingham, to allow her to visit. And it should be a comfort, not being alone. But fuck, he’s never felt more alone somehow, sitting on that chair. Waiting for a change that never comes. Tommy just looks a little paler with each passing day, his eyes a bit more sunken in, and his cheeks a bit more hollow.

_You have to promise you won’t let me waste away in some hospital bed._

The words ring in his head. Sometimes loud enough to force him out of his chair to pace in the alleyway outside the hospital. Stand with his hands resting on the rough brick wall and breathe until the guilt settles down from a roar to its usual hum.

What if this is it? The thought resurfaces every once in a while, when he doesn’t manage to keep himself busy enough. Or at night, when he’s lying in the empty bed, and the absence of cold toes digging into his calves remind him… When he opens the closet and one of Tommy’s dressing gowns slips down from its hanger. When he sees the empty ashtray on the kitchen table.

Everything around him reminds him that Tommy isn’t there.

The rest of their lives, wasn’t that what they said? Wasn’t that what they _fucking_ said? And now Tommy has gone ahead and left him alone with this life they’d built for themselves…

Sometimes during the sleepless nights, he tries to imagine Tommy, alive and happy… Pictures his face behind closed eyelids, sharply cut cheekbones, soft lips… Those freckles that the sun brings out. How his eyes always glimmer in the sunlight. But the picture doesn’t feel clear enough. Feels faded at the edges, as if he’s already beginning to forget. But he has to remember… Every single detail, like the way his bottom lip juts out ever so slightly when he’s thinking about something, or the feeling of that small scar on his- his- which cheek is the scar on? Alfie knows that. Of course he fucking knows that- But the memory slips away from him and his suddenly racing pulse does nothing to help… Shooting upright in the bed, hands trembling, he reaches for the photograph he keeps on his nightstand. _What do you need that photo there for? You can always just turn your head a little and look at me?_ The scar is on his left cheek… that’s what he thought, wasn’t it? He’s not forgetting- Everything is fine. He sinks back against the pillows, holding the frame in shaking hands.

The photo is black and white.

On bad nights he can’t help wondering, for how long he’ll remember just how blue Tommy’s eyes were.

…

One day, Edith carefully asks if he shouldn’t bring Charlie to the hospital. But he can’t take Charlie there. When Tommy wakes up, then he’ll take him. Otherwise it’d be like admitting that this is it. That the only way for Charlie to ever see his dad again, is to bring him into that room to look at Tommy’s lifeless body.

So when Charlie asks why they can’t go see papa in that place he is, Alfie swallows down the guilt, tries to smile and promises they’ll go soon. Then he asks if they shouldn’t take Cyril for a walk. Or read a book.

“He drew this today,” Edith says one day when he comes home from the hospital, handing over a drawing. The picture shows a large figure with half its face obscured by a beard. A downturned mouth. Next to that is a smaller figure with an equally sad expression, and large, dark blue lines going down its face. They’re standing outdoors, surrounded by trees and tall grass. A cloudy sky. And up on one of the clouds sits a third figure, with bright blue eyes. Blue lines streak the cheeks.   

Alfie brings the drawing to Charlie where he sits in the nursery.

“I heard you drew this today.” He seats himself on the floor and holds up the drawing. Charlie casts one look at it and then returns to his building blocks. Alfie studies the picture.

“It’s a very pretty drawing. All those trees. Can almost hear the birds sing can’t you?”

Charlie very meticulously puts down a block on top of another. Then he glances at the picture again. Alfie silently waits as he takes it into his hands, his bottom lip quivering.

“Come here, love.”

Charlie crawls up onto his lap and they look at the picture together.

Cyril comes into the nursery, curling up next to them. Somehow, even he seems subdued these days.

“He’s sad because he’s all alone.” Charlie points at the figure on the cloud. Alfie nods.

“And we’re sad because he’s not with us?”

Charlie nods, eyes brimming with tears.

“Can papa come down and visit us sometime?”

Alfie takes a long breath in through his nose, blinking rapidly a few times. He’s got the tears bottled up so tightly that the smallest thing risks breaking the glass. And he can’t start crying- because how the fuck is he supposed to stop, then?  

“Charlie, I know this is strange, and hard to understand, but papa isn’t dead. I promise. He’s just sleeping right now.” An image of Tommy’s gaunt face flashes by in his mind. He adds, after some hesitation. “And we can go and visit him. Soon. I promise.”  

Charlie nods again, and Alfie carefully wipes some of the tears away with his thumb.

They sit together for a long time, looking at the drawing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the absolutely wonderful comments on the last chapter! I will be responding to them all shortly. They have definitely helped me get through editing this chapter (and writing a whole extra scene that just came to me and added about five extra hours to the process. but it needed to be there)

Alfie’s heart has developed the habit of stopping for a moment every time the phone rings. So he almost hangs up again in pure frustration when it’s just Arthur on the other end.

Arthur starts talking before he can even express his annoyance.

“How about you come over for dinner Friday? John’s coming too. With the whole lot. Finn and Isaiah might swing by-“ Arthur rambles. Alfie can only pick up bits and pieces. “Think it’d do you good. Getting out of the house, you know. Charlie might like it too.”

Alfie is about to say no. Because how can he do such a normal fucking thing? But then he catches a glimpse of Charlie outside the window, running around the lawn as Edith chases him. He thinks of that drawing…

For Charlie’s sake, he has to try.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Think he’d like seeing his cousins.”

And so, they end up at Arthur and Linda’s house.

Alfie dreads it, beforehand. Thinks it’ll be a whole affair; John making inappropriate jokes because he can’t handle the situation. Linda just being… Linda. That they’ll look at him strangely, not know what to say… And sure, there’s a bit of that, to start off with. Alfie has sort of forgotten how to be around other people. How to pull himself out of his thoughts and interact with them.

They talk about Tommy for a while. But there’s not much that hasn’t been said already. It’s the one thing they talk about, over and over again. When meeting in the hospital corridor. It’s a fucking draining subject, because there’s never anything new to say.

So eventually, conversation moves to other things. Some sort of defense mechanism, probably. There’s only so much gray misery a person can take.

They slip into something that just feels so incredibly fucking normal. It’s boisterous and mildly chaotic and there are moments when Alfie sinks into it so completely that he forgets about everything else… He even laughs a few times, and the sound is so unfamiliar to his own ears that he barely understands it’s him making it.

Later, when he carries a sleeping Charlie out to their car, he realises he still has something akin to a smile on his face.

It’s not until he’s put Charlie to bed and goes into his and Tommy’s bedroom, when he sees the empty bed, that it fully dawns on him again: There’s no Tommy there waiting for him. 

The guilt twists his stomach so hard it almost knocks the air from his lungs, and he sinks down onto the mattress, resting his head in his hands. How the fuck can he sit by a  table and listen to Arthur ramble about the fucking deer gnawing at his apple trees, when Tommy’s lying alone in a hospital bed? Just fading away a little bit more with each passing day?

How can they behave as if- as if this is normal?

As if anything will ever be normal again?

As if anything will ever be alright again.

Right then, he’s so fucking sick of himself and the world and _fucking everything_ that he wishes he could crawl out of his own skin.

But he can’t. So he just sits there, on the cold _empty fucking_ bed. Staring into the darkness.  

…

Then one day, the call actually is from the hospital.

Just a fucking call, from one of the nurses, informing him that Tommy has woken up. She says it in a bright, and somehow far too normal voice, and has to repeat the words several times before they sink in. Alfie drops the earpiece to let it dangle as he rushes out the door.

He curses himself the entire way to the hospital.

Tommy is unconscious again when he arrives, and he deflates completely, slumping down on the chair next to the bed, and reaching out to take his hand.

“Sorry I wasn’t here, love,” he sighs and runs a thumb over his knuckles. “Didn’t know you’d just decide to wake up. Maybe you could’ve.. Don’t know, given me a bit of a sign or something? Moved your hand a little the other day.”

Tommy’s eyelashes flutter and he opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Tommy?” Alfie squeezes the hand gently, the smile stretching on his face feeling absolutely fucking alien by now. He wants to reach out and run a hand over his cheek, but all the metal makes it impossible. Tommy just stares blankly at the ceiling. Then his gaze shifts to Alfie. But there’s no spark in the eyes. Just this… emptiness.

Alfie inches the chair a little closer, holds Tommy’s hand between both of his own and squeezes it. It remains is completely still. He squeezes a bit harder. Too hard. It should hurt. But there isn’t even the tiniest flinch in Tommy’s face.

Letting go of the hand again, Alfie sinks back in his chair. Closes his eyes as he tries to swallow down the nausea. He has to just breathe for a moment. Breathe and not be here. Not face this.

The surroundings become a blur after that. He just sits in the midst of it all and lets it happen.

The doctor is suddenly there, asking Tommy questions. “Do you remember your name? Where you are? What year it is?” Simple things. But Tommy’s eyes remain utterly lifeless. He can see, the doctor tells Alfie. That’s not the problem. He’s just not _there_ yet. Not completely.

What the fuck does that even mean?

The doctor insists that it’s a good thing, despite all of that. A good sign.

Tommy falls back asleep just a few minutes later, remaining unconscious for the rest of the day.

When Alfie makes the drive back home, all he can think about is how lifeless those eyes looked. How there was nothing of his Tommy left in them. 

He has to stop the car by the side of the road, and barely makes it out before he’s vomiting his guts out onto the gravel.

…

He in a strange state of absolute numbness for a few days.

Once that initial flicker of happiness at seeing Tommy open his eyes dies down, there’s just a void in its place. Alfie thinks that maybe one of those wires in his head finally snapped completely. Maybe that’s why he’s just feeling… nothing.

He more or less lives at the hospital. Spends entire days by Tommy’s bedside, holding his hand, trying to speak to him. Fucking hell if he’s not going to sit by that bed every single day until- until something fucking happens.

Tommy stays awake for a little longer each day, but never emerges from that fog his mind seems to be caught in.  They keep him on high doses of morphine to combat the pain, and the room is always dark. Because the light hurts him. Loud noises hurt him. Everything fucking hurts him. Alfie doesn’t dare to talk much, keeping his voice to a mutter whenever Tommy turns his eyes to him. Hoping to get through to him.

He never does.

Outside, the sun has finally thawed the ground completely, and the whole world seems to be coming back to life. Compared to that, the room feels increasingly like a separate reality.

Alfie almost can’t bear going there on some mornings. Then he remembers the black and white photograph on his nightstand. So he goes. To look into those eyes that are the same colour as Tommy’s, but still not his.

Sometimes he thinks he can see an accusatory shadow in those eyes as they stare blankly at some undetermined spot over his shoulder, too large in the gaunt face.

_“You have to promise you won’t let me waste away in some hospital bed. Promise-”_

The words gnaw at him.

Then, one day, a tired nurse forgets the bottle of morphine on the nightstand. An entire bottle. Alfie stares at it. For a moment, he wonders if this is how God has decided to answer his incessant prayers. A merciful way out.

_It wouldn’t hurt._

Tommy is gazing listlessly at the ceiling.  

_It wouldn’t take long._

Alfie could hold him.

He could hold him and it wouldn’t hurt and-

He stares at the bottle. For seconds that melt into minutes and an absolute eternity. And then he gets out of the chair, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Out of the chair and out of the room, escaping from the bleak walls and the clinical smell. Has to get as far away as possible-

Some part of his brain still capable of logic tells him he shouldn’t be driving, but that’s easy to ignore.

The stable yard is empty when he stops the car in the middle of it, the usual bustle having died down for the night. A sense of peace has replaced it and the light spring evening is enveloping everything in blue mist.

He feels oddly detached from his own body as he wanders aimlessly over the premises, letting his feet carry him wherever. Searching for something, without knowing what. Just needs to keep moving.

He ends up in his and Tommy’s office. The building is large enough to accommodate two, _several_ of them really. But after so many years of sharing the one in Camden, it would’ve felt odd to suddenly split. And Alfie’s used to looking up every once in a while to rest his eyes on Tommy.

Tommy keeps photos on his desk now. Of him. Charlie. They’ve slowly accumulated over the years, starting with just a single one hidden among the pages of his calendar and increasing in number. Now they all have frames.

Alfie stands there, staring down at the papers neatly piled on the blotter. Very different from his own desk, which is always a ‘fucking mess’. _No wonder you’re always losing things. How would you even get by without me?_

The calendar is splayed open, filled with Tommy’s neat handwriting. Meetings, important dates… He’s got all the holidays written in there. And Charlie’s birthday. Alfie’s. Their anniversary. Alfie was the first one to mark that in a calendar, several years ago, by drawing a large circle that cut off Tommy’s carefully written letters. _For fucks sake, Alfie! I would’ve remembered anyway. Just look at this? It’s covering half the page!_

The next anniversary, Tommy circled the date himself.  
Alfie teased him and earned himself a glare that didn’t fade until he pulled Tommy down onto his lap and mercilessly tickled him and-

And how-

How is he supposed to live without him?

The hole in his chest where that odd numbness has settled is suddenly filled raw pulsating heat, bursting up from it. Blind and pitch black rage.    
His hands grasp for something to throw, closing around one of the picture frames.

Can’t bear to look at it. Any of it.

Because Tommy isn’t here. He’s lying in a hospital bed, slowly withering away before his eyes-

And Alfie promised-

The table lamp, a ledger- anything that he can get his hands on ends up thrown across the room.

How the fuck could Tommy ask that of him?   

How could he leave him with all of this?

With no fucking way out.  

_And how is he supposed to live without him?_

Finally, there’s nothing left. Nothing that’s whole or worth breaking; but the anger is still fucking burning in his chest and it’s ripping a hole through his fucking ribcage and he can’t- can’t do this-

He buries his face in his hands and screams.

Digs his nails into his scalp, clutches at his skull and just fucking screams and screams until his throat his raw. Then, the tears finally come. The scream dissolves into wordless sobs and he slides down onto the floor, back leaned against the bookcase.

And he cries.

…

There are voices in the distance. Talking to each other, seemingly. Too low to be addressing him. Alfie wishes they’d just shut the fuck up and take their conversation elsewhere…

He only catches little bits and pieces.

“-don’t know, I found the car when I got here this morning…” That’s May. What the fuck is she doing in his and Tommy’s bedroom? “-didn’t know who to call-“

But this isn’t their bedroom- didn’t make it home last night-

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

Besides, he’s sitting on a fucking hardwood floor. Over which steps are now approaching.

“Morning, mate! Figured you’d do some redecorating?” Arthur. Fucking brilliant. “Looks like shit. You should probably let Tommy take care of it from here on.” A pair of knees knock against his as Arthur crouches down. Alfie kicks out one leg aimlessly, but misses of course.

“Sod off.”

“Sure, but you’re coming along.”

When Arthur grabs his arm, Alfie feels forced to open his eyes. The light streaming in through the window pricks them like needles and he promptly squeezes his eyelids shut again. He presses his back against the bookcase, the firm surface grounding him somewhat as a shelf digs painfully into his shoulder blades.

“Here. Know you’re not much of a drinker, but this feels like the right time for an exception.” Arthur very rudely bumps something cold and metallic against his forehead and Alife opens his eyes again to glare at the flask. “Go on.”

“Just fuck off Arthur,” he grunts and considers shoving him. But what would the fucking point be? He lets his arms fall limply at his sides instead.

The destruction in the office looks worse in daylight. Broken glass, ripped papers, furniture that’s been tipped over-

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Arthur sighs, still holding the flask obnoxiously close to his face. “Either you take a swig of this, get up on your feet and come with me. Or, I’ll bash you over the head with something and fucking drag you out to the car.”

For some reason, Alfie gets the feeling this isn’t an empty threat.

The whiskey burns as it slides down his throat, rousing him slightly, and when Arthur hooks a hand under his arm and pulls, Alfie staggers to his feet.

He numbly follows as Arthur takes the lead out of the office building, walking briskly towards Alfie’s car. The stable yard is full of the usual activity, and it feels so fucking odd, being in the midst of it suddenly. Alfie tries to focus on just putting one foot in front of the other

“How the fuck did you get here?” he mutters and looks around in search of Arthur’s car.

“I walked. You do realise I live half an hour away? And it’s a nice morning. Figured that if you’d been sitting in that office all night, a few minutes longer wouldn’t hurt you. Even though May was in a bit of a state when she called.”

Not completely aware of his surroundings, Alfie almost walks straight into the lanky figure crossing the yard. Suddenly, he’s stood staring into a pair of wide eyes.

The reaction is abrupt and instinctive, like a jolt of electricity running through his veins. His hands move on their own accord, grabbing Jasper by the collar and nearly lifting him off his feet by it.  

“What the fuck are you still doing here?”

They boy just stares at him, eyes impossibly large as he grasps at Alfie’s wrists with bony fingers.

“Alfie, fucking leave it,” Arthur calls out, already approaching him over the gravel. But he stops when Alfie directs a look at him.

Jasper swallows, wetting his lips. “I- I’m sorry about what happened.”

Letting out a cackle that sounds manic even to his own ears, Alfie clenches his hands until his knuckles whiten and he can feel his pulse thumping under the skin of his palms.

“You’re sorry, yeah?” he grits out. “Fucking sorry. Good. That’s good. See, we should of course be sorry, right? When we fuck up so badly that we get someone’s skull cracked open.” Jasper winces a little when some spittle lands on his cheek. “Being sorry is the appropriate reaction, innit? Yeah, the man I’ve shared my fucking life with for ten years is lying in a hospital bed, staring into some endless void. As if his head’s just full of blood and broken fucking shards.” He takes a shaky breath in through his nose. “But you’re sorry. So it’s all fine-“

The boy is completely frozen in fear. Reminds him so much of that day –petrified, unable to even listen to a simple command.

_Let go of the fucking reins._

“Alfie, let him go.” May’s voice comes from his side, where she’s silently appeared. “It was an accident.”

Alfie bores his eyes into Jasper who stares back, eyes still wide and full of fear.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs.

He’s just a fucking kid… Can’t be older than… seventeen.

Yeah, but Charlie… Charlie is a kid. And maybe Tommy won’t be around to see even his _fifth_ birthday.

May comes a bit closer. He can see her out of the corner of his eye, slowly reaching out.

Alfie lets him go abruptly and Jasper staggers backwards, panting. He stares at the ground, at the sack he’s dropped there. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “I know it’s not- that it’s not enough, but- but I’m sorry.”

“Jasper, go and give Aristides his food,” May tells him firmly, and he’s quick to hoist up the sack with shaking arms and hurry off across the yard.

Alfie is left with a racing pulse throbbing against his temple and hands clenched into fists, watching his retreating back.

“He lives alone with his sick mother and four younger siblings,” May says. “Work isn’t easy to come by out here.” She pauses, as if expecting a response. Alfie doesn’t give her one. “It was a mistake. And yes, it was a bad one. But that’s all it was. A mistake.”

A mistake. Yeah. Sure. But there are mistakes you’re not allowed to make.  

Alfie turns to face her, and she squares her jaw as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“If Tommy never… wakes up,” he begin slowly. “Fucking, _actually_ wakes up... If he can never talk again. If he doesn’t remember me. Doesn’t remember Charlie. And has to spend the rest of his life in a fucking hospital bed-” His eyes slip to the stable, but Jasper has disappeared from view. “Then I don’t think he can keep working here.” May’s gaze is unwavering as he meets it. “Because I might end up shooting him.”

Nodding, May lets her arms fall to her sides.

Alfie turns and marches towards the car, Arthur coming to walk alongside him and sliding into the driver’s seat before he can protest. Climbing into the passenger seat, Alfie demonstratively turns to look out the window.

The entire ride is spent in silence.

It’s not until Arthur stops outside his and Tommy’s house that he speaks up.

“You need to stay at home for a few days,” he states, as if he’s got any kind of authority to be giving orders.  “I’ll go to the hospital today. Talk to the others and make sure they visit too. He won’t be alone. But you need to fucking rest.”

“Fuck off.”

Arthur shakes his head slowly, giving him a tired look.

“Take a fucking look at yourself, mate,” he sighs. “You’ll end up killing someone. Yourself, probably. I know it’s fucking hard alright-“

“Don’t give me that shit,” Alfie scoffs. “The fuck do you know? It’s not Linda lying in that bed is it?”

Slamming his hands against the steering wheel, Arthur stares at him, eyes suddenly wide as he draws a sharp breath.

“No. But it’s my fucking brother. You’re not the only one- the only one who’s fucking worried.”

For a moment, Alfie wonders if Arthur will punch him.

For a moment, he wants him to. 

But then Arthur’s shoulders sag and he slumps against the back of the seat. His voice has lost all its strength when he speaks again.

“He’s- he’s my little brother, isn’t he?” He rubs a hand over his mouth. “You know, I still think of him like that. Always liked that, I did, being a big brother. Remember how proud I felt when our mum showed him to me for the first time. He was this tiny, tiny little thing.” Letting out a shaky laugh, he holds up his hands to illustrate. “Could’ve fit in a shoebox. And I felt so fucking proud, being an older brother. Sure, spent a lot of time fucking it up. But... yeah, I still think it’s one of my finer qualities.”

Alfie’s about to say that he’s definitely improved in this area over the years, but Arthur hasn’t finished.

“I know it’s not the same,” he continues. “Fuck, of course I do. Because what you have- yeah, I get it. Not the same.” Arthur’s eyes have gone suspiciously dewy. “He’s going to snap out of this. And then he’s going to need you.” He stares out the car window at a tree branch, as if that branch is the most interesting thing in the entire fucking world. “Tommy’s never needed anyone the way he needs you. So you can’t run yourself into the ground. Alright?”

A bird has landed on the branch, giving Arthur even more of a reason to stare at it. Alfie in turn looks down at his hands, twisting the ring on his left ring finger a few times.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. No need to get all emotional.”

That earns him a sharp elbow in the side. Arthur straightens up in his seat again with renewed energy.

“Brilliant. So, now you’re going into that house. To your son and your stupid fucking giant dog and you’re staying there for a few days,” he says, nodding towards the house. “Maybe go for a walk. And Friday, you’re coming to dinner again. Alright? Or I’ll grab John and Finn and we’ll fucking barge in and drag you there.”

“Finn? Really?” Alfie snorts, trying to imagine Finn doing anything even remotely violent “That’s your threat?”

“Fine. I’ll ask Esme.”

“Sod off.”

Arthur climbs out of the car and Alfie does the same, fighting back the urge to just fall asleep in the passenger seat. Giving his back a firm pat, Arthur shakes his head, blinking a suspicious amount of times as he stares at that branch again. The bird is gone. The hand lingers on Alfie’s shoulder. 

“Just so we’re clear, my statement still stands. Said it all those years ago and I’ll say it again, I don’t fucking like you.”

“I don’t fucking like you either, mate.” Alfie stares at another branch in the opposite direction. It’s blurry, for some indiscernible fucking reason. He blinks to clear his eyes from the dust that must’ve gotten caught there. “In fact, I hope you fall into some fucking hole on your way home. Get eaten by a starved fox that John’s failed to shoot. Place must be crawling with those. Because he’s a lousy fucking shot, isn’t he?”

Arthur slaps his back again, quite hard.

“Ten fucking years I’ve put up with this. A fucking miracle if there ever was one,” he grunts, before beginning his walk down the gravel road. “See you Friday. I’ll even make sure it’s all kosher and shit,” he calls over his shoulder.

Alfie goes inside.

And the next day, he stays at home. Bakes bread for Charlie and takes him on a long walk with Cyril.

For three days he doesn’t go to the hospital.

But then Charlie asks about it as Alfie tucks him in one night: When they can go visit together.

“Soon, love.” Alfie smiles, but it’s starting to feel so strange… like he’s forgotten how to do it properly. Charlie frowns.

“You always say soon.”

Alfie thinks of that drawing. The small figure on the cloud…

Charlie deserves to see Tommy. No matter how heartbroken it’ll leave him.

“How about tomorrow, we start on a drawing. And then we draw a little each day.” He picks up Charlie’s tiny hand. “How many fingers have you got?”

“Five!”

“Yeah, that’s right. Five. And… let’s say in five days, we go and give the drawing to papa. How does that sound?”

Charlie is quite pleased with this answer, and immediately begins planning on what to draw. Something with horses, because papa likes those. Daddy should be in the picture too, and Charlie and Cyril of course- 

When Alfie lies in bed later, he feels something hot and wet trail down his cheeks. The sadness is back in its usual spot in his chest, where that numb, hollow feeling has been residing.

He doesn’t bother wiping the tears away. There’s no fucking point-

No fucking point to anything anymore-

It feels like he’s missing- fuck, like half his body is missing. Not just a missing limb, but a missing lung and heart and brain and he can’t _think_ without Tommy. For ten years he’s been able to share everything with him. Every little stupid idea and thought that passes by in his head…

He feels so alone that he can’t fucking bear it.

Large paws come padding across the hardwood floor, and the mattress shifts under Cyril’s weight as the dog settles on the bed. Not at the foot of it, where he usually curls up, but on Tommy’s side.

“Yeah, you just lie there at your own risk, alright,” Alfie sniffs. Cyril raises his head and licks him in the face. Straight across. And somehow, he laughs a bit through the tears. “Tommy will be fucking pissed at you for getting hair all over the sheets. And I’ll be the one hearing it, won’t I?”

Cyril just pants and slobbers a bit more on his face, before settling heavily right next to him with a pleased sigh.

Alfie reaches out to scratch him behind the ears. And he decides that tomorrow… Tomorrow he’ll go to the hospital again. He’ll go, and he’ll bring one of Tommy’s favourite books and he’ll read to him.

...

He informs Edith of this decision as he passes her in the kitchen the following morning.

“Alright.” She looks up from the kettle, eyes narrowing, and her voice has a definite edge to it when she adds, “But you’re coming home tonight.”

What does it say about him, that he chooses to surround himself with people like this?

“Yeah. I’m coming home tonight.”

Giving a curt nod, Edith goes back to making tea.  

Tommy is asleep when he comes into the room. It makes it a little easier. He looks a bit healthier that way. A bit more peaceful.

When Alfie reaches out and takes his hand, his eyelids twitch. The quick reaction should incite some hope, but it’s- fuck, he’s so tired.

“Hey there, love. Sorry about the cold hands. Really shitty weather out today,” he mutters and tries to smile. “And sorry I haven’t been here, either. For a few days. But I’m here now, alright? Brought a book and everything.” 

Tommy blinks and turns his eyes towards Alfie. A tiny crease appears between his eyebrows and he blinks a few more times.

And suddenly he’s not looking through him anymore, but _at_ him. Alfie’s heart makes a leap in his chest, high enough to catch at the back of his throat and cut his breathing off completely. And the hand shifts the tiniest bit, the fingers squeezing weakly around his.

“Tommy, love, can you hear me? You there?”

Tommy smiles, the grip tightening the slightest bit. The smile is not much more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but there’s a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Life stirring under the blue surface. Alfie lets out a long exhale.

Breathe, for fucks sake, he needs to breathe-

“And you- you know where you are? You remember-“ Then he can’t get any more words out, because he’s all out of air and his throat is too tight.

Tommy lets out a weak hum, squeezing his hand a little harder, the thumb rubbing a tiny circle on the back of his hand.

Alfie presses his lips against the knuckles. Holds the palm of Tommy’s hand against his cheek to feel the soft skin. The warmth. Feel that Tommy alive. That he’s here, finally here…

There really shouldn’t be any fucking tears left at this point, but when Tommy smiles at him again, they well his eyes nevertheless. This time, Tommy’s thumb is there to gently wipe them away as they trail down his cheek.

And just like that, Alfie remembers how a real smile is supposed to feel.

…

Charlie is absolutely ecstatic when Alfie tells him they’re going to the hospital. He tries to prepare him first; tells him about the metal, that Tommy looks a little different right now because he hasn’t eaten in a long while, worried that Charlie will start crying at the mere sight. Charlie seems unconcerned with all of that, practically jumping next to him as they walk through the corridor, his drawing clutched in his hand together with a bunch of forget-me-nots. They had to roam half the county to find those, in the early spring weather, but Charlie’s smile when they found them made it well worth the trouble.

“And we’ve got to be real quiet, like when you play hide and seek,” Alfie tells him. “Whisper, you know?”

Charlie nods solemnly and clutches his drawing a little tighter to his chest when Alfie opens the door to Tommy’s room. It’s a relief to see that Tommy is not only awake, but turns his eyes towards the doorway the moment they come inside.

“Look who’s here to see you,” Alfie says quietly and gently ushers Charlie into the room.

When his eyes settle on Charlie, a sad shadow crosses Tommy’s face and Alfie’s heart twists with worry.

But the moment Charlie sees Tommy, his entire face lights up. 

“Papa!” He beams and reaches for him, completely unconcerned with how pale and gaunt his father’s face looks. Doesn’t even seem to notice the metal cage.

The sadness fades. Tommy smiles, a little wider than last time, and something bright and happy glints in his eyes. God, Alfie could just start fucking bawling again…

He carefully sits Charlie down at the edge of the bed, making sure he stays far away from Tommy’s head. Charlie places the drawing on Tommy’s stomach and holds out the flowers.

“I picked these for you,” he says quietly, glancing at Alfie in need of reassurance. Alfie nods encouragingly. Charlie looks back to Tommy. “Do you like them?”

Tommy’s hand twitches a little, and Alfie picks it up and places it in Charlie’s lap, so he can squeeze his knee gently. Charlie seems to take the accompanying blink as a ‘yes’ because he grins toothily. Then he shows him the drawing, pointing at and explaining the different things depicted. It’s the three of them out in a meadow with Cyril and an arguably excessive amount of horses.

A nurse brings a small vase to put the flowers in, and they get a prime position in front of all the others. There’s a whole collection. A bouquet from Polly, one from Finn and Isaiah –just like Finn, to be the only one out of the Shelby brothers with the sense to buy flowers. But apparently both Linda and Esme have taken the reins and bought some as well.

Alfie’s got a distinct feeling Tommy will disapprove of all the plant life once he’s able to properly turn his head. Not Charlie’s flowers of course. But all the others. _Not like I could see them anyway?_ He honestly can’t wait to hear it.

They stay until late in the afternoon, when a nurse comes in and warily tells them Tommy needs to rest now. It’s not good for his head, too many impressions in one day. Her eyes dart around the room, looking at anything but Alfie. And Alfie has perhaps not been the most… pleasant of people to be around, so admittedly it’s not entirely unwarranted.  

Tommy can’t quite quirk his eyebrow, but the look he gives Alfie is very much one of those ‘do as you’re told’ looks. So Alfie presses a kiss against the back of his hand, Charlie gives him a hug, and for the first time his heart feels light when he leaves the hospital.

When he’s gathering up Charlie’s crayons from the living room floor later that night, he finds another drawing. It’s a bed, surrounded by colourful splotches. There’s a figure in the bed, with bright blue eyes. Next to it is that bearded figured he’s learned to recognize as himself, and then a small one on the bed. 

They’re all smiling in this one.

…

One afternoon when Alfie comes into the room with Charlie in his arms and yet another drawing in his hand, Tommy is sitting up in the bed. Leaned against several pillows, but still.  All the metal is gone, and Alfie might be imagining it, but he thinks some colour has even returned to his cheeks.

“Papa!” Charlie squeals and splays his arms in an enthusiastic gesture. The tone causes Tommy to wince, but he quickly straightens his features into a smile. Alfie gently hushes Charlie, who presses a finger against his lips and whispers an almost inaudible ‘sorry’.

Then, Tommy lifts his hand a little, reaching out for him. “Charlie.”

The shock of hearing his voice has Alfie stopping in his tracks, unable to break out of his stupor until Charlie tugs a little at his beard. “Hug?”

Alfie settles Charlie right next to him on the bed and very carefully, Charlie wraps his arms around Tommy’s chest. It takes a moment before Tommy gets his arms to cooperate, but then he manages to hug him back. Charlie curls up on his lap, burying his face against his chest with a pleased little sigh.

Alfie watches the scene with eyes that have suddenly gone blurry and what he suspects is a quite soppy grin on his face.

When Tommy looks at him and smiles, he has to rub his eyes to clear them. Fuck, this is an absolutely exhausting experience. He’s squeezed in a lifetime’s worth of tears in a few fucking days…

“Don’t be sad,” Charlie says, eyes growing large with concern.

“Oh, I’m not sad, love. Not at all.” Alfie comes to stand next to the bed, reaching out to gently stroke Tommy’s hair. Tommy leans into the touch. “I’m just really happy.”

“I’m also happy,” Charlie declares. “I’m happy all the time now.”

Then, he wants to show Tommy his latest drawing. This one is full of mostly flowers, and trees with bright green leaves. Since Tommy can’t see them for himself, he explains wisely. He points to each and every thing in the drawing. Tommy hums and nods. He still slips away a little every now and then, unable to focus for too long. But he always comes back.  

Once he’s finished showing the artwork, Charlie buries his face in the white hospital gown and promptly falls asleep on Tommy’s lap.

Tommy gently runs his thumb over his back.

“Probably knackered, poor thing,” Alfie explains. “He was so excited to see you that I could barely put him to sleep last night. Worse than before his birthday even.”

The twinkle in Tommy’s eyes makes his heart swell.

Tommy pats the spot next to him on the bed, and Alfie is happy to oblige, seating himself right next to him on the mattress and leaning back against the pillows with a sigh. He allows himself to close his eyes for just a moment, listening to Tommy breathing. Takes his hand and runs his thumb over the knuckles. 

“Alfie-“

The sound of his own name has never been more beautiful. He hums and opens one eye. Tommy has furrowed his brow in concentration

“When…” Tommy pauses. Tries again. But the words won’t come out and he can see the frustration in his eyes. “Wh- en-“

“It’s okay, love. Take your time,” Alfie whispers against his temple, pressing a soft kiss there. “It’ll get easier.”

Tommy sinks back a little against the pillows, shoulders sagging and eyes slipping closed for a moment as he tries to gather himself. Then he looks up at Alfie again.

“Home.”

“Yeah, you’ll get to come home soon, sweetheart,” Alfie promises. “Bet our bed’s just as good as this one. Better, probably. I’ll have a word with the doctor. See if there’re any strings I can pull.”

Tommy shifts slightly, very carefully leaning his head against Alfie’s shoulder. Just as carefully, Alfie stretches an arm behind his neck, pulling him close.

“Now, this is how it’s supposed to be, innit?” he mutters into his hair. “Yeah, not the cracked skull perhaps. But the rest of it. You, me and a surprisingly uncomfortable bed. How you’ve managed to stay asleep for so long in this is a fucking-“

A confused wrinkle has appeared between Tommy’s eyebrows and Alfie cuts the little ramble short. “Sorry, love, not important. I’m just talking shit, as usual.”

Tommy’s forehead smooths out a little, but he still doesn’t seem to have caught up completely. Too fast. Too many words at once. Alfie needs to keep that in mind.  

Luckily, there are plenty of activities that don’t require words.

So for now, he just leans down and kisses him.

And Tommy kisses him back.


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Cyril, for fucks sake, leave the rabbits alone!”

Ignoring Alfie’s call, Cyril shoves his head down yet another burrow, tail wagging. A muffled bark comes from somewhere under the dirt.

“You know he doesn’t understand that, right?” John snickers, and Alfie rewards him with a scoff.

“I’ll have you know that he’s an incredibly clever creature. Bet he’s got you beat on that front.”

John shoves him. Alfie doesn’t bother returning the gesture, because he was honestly quite enjoying this walk, thank you very much, and would like the peace and quiet to continue.

“So…” John begins hesitantly once that peace has settled again, dragging the word out. “How’re… things? With Tommy?”

Alfie whistles for Cyril, who finally gives up on his mission to scare the life out of every rodent within a five mile radius, and comes running towards him over the grassy hill with a stick in his mouth.  

“Yeah, well, it is what it is, innit?” he grunts and scratches Cyril behind the ears. “He’s... in a lot of pain, most days. But it’s getting better. And he’s happy to be home, I reckon.”

He’s not even sure how to sum up all the feelings involved in this situation. Not sure how much of it John’s willing to listen to either…

“And how’s his head working? Like, can he… think?” John scratches the back of his neck, squinting up at the sun. “Fuck, that sounded dumb. But, yeah, it’s always been… his thing, you know? Being all bright and shit. Sharp.”

Letting out a chuckle, Alfie throws the stick for Cyril to chase after.

“Well, we’re working on it. Everything just takes a bit longer right now. Understanding what people are saying, process what’s going on around him… all of that. But he talks more now. On some days, at least.”

Cyril comes galloping over the hill, tail wagging and with a completely different stick in his mouth. Alfie throws that too.

“And I’m just so fucking happy to have him home that nothing feels like a problem,” he states. “Fucking hell… he could’ve died. But he’s alive, isn’t he? And nothing else bloody matters if you think of it like that.”

John nods. “Suppose that’s true.”

Yeah, it's true alright.

And Alfie wakes up full of gratitude every single morning. Even after those difficult nights, when Tommy is in too much pain to sleep, but still refuses to take any morphine. Or when he wakes up, confused and scared, without knowing where he is. Muttering incoherent gibberish. Every time, Alfie reminds himself of how it felt to sit by that hospital bed; compared to that, nothing should be difficult.

He just has to keep telling himself that.

It works, most of the time. 

The rest of the walk is spent focusing on slightly less jarring subjects, John apparently feeling satisfied with having fulfilled his obligations as concerned brother and in-law. Alfie doesn’t mind. He spends enough time as it is, thinking of this.

It’s a welcomed pause.

When Alfie comes home and steps into the kitchen, he finds Edith there with Charlie, attempting to feed him breakfast. Charlie greets him with his normal enthusiasm and flings a spoonful of porridge onto the floor in the process. Alfie leans down and kisses the top of his head.

“Is Tommy awake?” he wonders as he watches Cyril help clean up the mess in his usual fashion, using his tongue.

“Yes. But it’s- it doesn’t seem to be a good day,” Edith says, choosing her words carefully. “But he expressed being bored. So that’s something, at least.”

Letting out a sigh, Alfie begins cutting a slice of toast into bite sized pieces. It makes it easier for Tommy to eat on his own. Already hard enough as it is, this whole thing; they don’t need to add ‘having to be fed’ to the list. On the really bad days, Alfie still needs to do that.

“Yeah, that’s definitely a healthy response to being stuck in bed.” He pours tea into two cups, adding a bit of milk in Tommy’s. “Maybe it’ll get easier when he’s actually allowed to read a book or something.”

“Play!” Charlie exclaims and reaches out for Alfie as he passes him with the tray.

“I need to give your papa some breakfast, love,” Alfie tells him and tries to ignore the guilt chafing in the pit of his stomach. “And keep him company for a little while.”

Clearly not in one of his more generous moods, Charlie pouts, and Edith picks him up before it can turn into something more dramatic. 

“Know what, sweetie? How about you and I go out and play in the garden?” She gives Charlie one of her brightest smiles, perching him on top of the table. “I can be your horse. Got reins and everything. And we can pretend we’re at the races.” She shakes her head, the long braids bouncing around her shoulders, and makes a rather convincing impression of a neigh.

Charlie clambers onto her back, and squeals with laughter as they prance out of the kitchen with Cyril hot on their trail.

Edith gives Alfie a wink in passing, and he hopes that the gratitude is visible in his eyes.

Safe in the knowledge that Charlie will be occupied for at least the foreseeable future, he brings the tea upstairs for Tommy, taking great care to open the door as quietly as possible..

Right, volume control, he should have this down by now. “Morning, sweetheart.”

Tommy doesn’t look at him as he enters the bedroom, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall. A clear sign today’s not a good day. But at least he’s sitting up, leaned against the usual mountain of pillows.

“Got you some breakfast, love,” Alfie says and sets the tray down on the nightstand

“Not- I’m not… not-“ Tommy gives up on his attempt to speak and settles for staring at the window obscured by thick curtains, a shadow coming over his face.

Alfie sits down next to him on the bed.

“Alright, I know it feels like it, but you’re not going to be stuck in this bed forever. Just a few weeks, innit? And how’re you supposed to walk around if you’ve wasted away to nothing?”

Tommy still doesn’t answer.

Alfie lets the silence drag on, as always unsure of how much he can demand of him. It’s difficult right now, knowing whether he’s just sulking, if he’s in too much pain to talk, or a combination of the two.

Deciding to focus on the food for now, he sets the plate down on Tommy’s lap. Reminiscent of how you’d treat an injured animal that needs to be coaxed into eating: Just continue putting the food in front of them and hope for the best…

Tommy always did remind him of a bird, the way he pecks at his food rather than scarf it down.

“Charlie’s going to be upset, you know,” he tries when Tommy merely stares down at the bread. “See, he won’t even recognize you if you lose any more weight. Didn’t have any to spare to begin with either. So maybe you could at least try?”

That does the trick. Although it’s accompanied with a weak glare, Tommy picks up a piece of toast and chews it dejectedly. Another one follows. Alfie tries to not look too pleased as he drinks his tea. But he is. He’s really fucking pleased that he’s got this sulking little figure back in the house. No amount of reluctance on Tommy’s part can change that.

“No work today?” Tommy asks once he’s eaten almost half of the bread and apparently deems a pause necessary.

Alfie shakes his head. “Might swing by the office for an hour or two in the afternoon. But I figured I’d keep you company.”

Staring down at the plate, Tommy picks at the bread. “Don’t have to.” 

Cupping one of his cheeks, Alfie gently encourages him to look up again. 

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says firmly. “See, I’ve told you before and I’ll just continue fucking telling you this: I’ve missed you more than what should be humanly possible. I could spend the entire day just sitting right here watching you, and be perfectly content.”

The frown that’s been etched on Tommy’s face since Alfie entered the room softens. He reaches up and puts his hand over Alfie’s, his thumb trailing gently across the rings.

Then he turns his attention back to the plate and picks up another piece of bread, slowly bringing it to his mouth. Chewing is an equally slow process. But he manages to eat the entire thing today, a clear improvement from last week.

More pleased with this than he lets on, Alfie sets the plate aside and picks up the book they’re currently working on. He moves closer to Tommy on the bed, and Tommy leans into his side, gingerly laying his head on his chest and closing his eyes.

Alfie reads, his voice barely above a whisper to make sure the sound will be soothing rather than cause Tommy splitting headaches. He feels how the tension melts from his shoulders. This is good. This, Tommy likes. Alfie thinks that it gets his mind off the pain for a bit. It creates distraction from the boredom until he’s allowed to read on his own.

And it does always seem to soothe him. Alfie has developed this method, where he reads a little section, and then pauses. Makes some comment, as if to clarify to himself what events just transpired, if the plot is intricate enough. Because although Tommy never says it out loud, he knows that he struggles to keep up then. It’s just one of those things he’s noticed. Just like when Alfie goes off on a tangent and jumps too quickly between subjects as he speaks: he sees this confused glint in his eyes. There’s been an improvement, thankfully. Just in the past two weeks. But he still catches himself mid-ramble sometimes, noticing that heartbreakingly insecure look on Tommy’s face. Because he can’t puzzle the incoherent sentences and snippets of information together.

Well, books are easier. There’s often more of a consistent thread throughout them. And so, Alfie reads.

Two chapters later, he feels Tommy’s body slowly relaxing more into his side. Feels his head grow a bit heavier where it rests on his chest, and hears his breathing deepen. After reading on for another minute or so to make sure Tommy is actually asleep, Alfie carefully lays him down on the mattress and leans down to place a soft kiss on his forehead. Then he leaves the room.

Better that he sleeps, when it’s one of these days, when everything seems to hurt him and his tongue isn’t cooperating.

...

There are a lot of those days to begin with.

A lot of days when Tommy can do nothing but lie completely still in a dark room and breathe through the pain. In the beginning, Alfie tries to suggest taking some of the morphine the doctor prescribed. It’s always met with the same firm no. And it’s the one thing he doesn’t insist on.

But there are good days in between. And then Tommy can sit up, and Charlie can play at the foot of the bed with Horse, and he doesn’t frown when Alfie tries to get him to eat. The short, slurred sentences become longer. Less incoherent. Alfie’s spontaneous speeches, although entirely accidental, don’t spark the same confusion in his eyes.

When those good days eventually string together into almost a whole week, Alfie brings Tommy the paper with his breakfast. More to cheer him up than anything else. He decides that just a few minutes can’t hurt. In any case, it’ll be worth it, if it brings some life back into Tommy’s eyes.

 “Thank fuck,” Tommy mutters when Alfie drops the paper down onto his lap, ignoring the food as he opens it with an eagerness that makes Alfie’s heart swell.

Too pleased with the reaction to bother nagging him about eating for now, he goes to pull away the curtains and let a little bit of light into the room. When he turns again, he finds that Tommy is just staring down at the paper, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Something wrong, love?”

Tommy doesn’t answer, and Alfie seats himself on the edge of the bed, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

“I can’t read.” The words come out as a defeated whisper and Tommy lets the paper slip out of his hand and down onto the floor as he slumps back against the pillows.

Unable to come up with any comforting words right then, Alfie feels a heavy silence settle in the entire room, blanketing it in a sense of momentary hopelessness.

Fuck. Just what they needed.

There’s no use trying to coax Tommy into eating after this. He curls up under the duvet and pulls it over his head, refusing to even acknowledge Alfie’s existence, no matter what sort of soft reassurances he mutters to him. Let it be known that Alfie Solomons is nothing if not fucking stubborn. But even he has to admit defeat against this. So when Charlie calls for him from the nursery, he quietly leaves the room.

The tray with the single cut up piece of toast is left on the nightstand.

When he returns later, it still sits untouched, and Tommy seems to have fallen asleep in his nest of blankets. Or perhaps he’s just deciding to ignore him. Alfie leaves him be for now.  _He just needs some time._ That’s all he needs. Some time to come to terms with this.  

But that familiar knot of worry tightens in Alfie’s stomach again.

…

Tommy can't read. The kick itself or the subsequent surgery has completely taken away his ability to puzzle letters together, or even recognize half of them. And the discovery leaves him reeling. 

Alfie tells himself he's just hit a rough patch. That’s all this is -he refuses to call it anything else. Not the end of a rope, not rock bottom, not _a pitch black hole that Tommy seems to have fallen into and that Alfie can’t get him out of_. It’s just… a rough patch. A minor setback…

Or, if Alfie is completely honest with himself –and he always was a rather shitty liar- a major one.

Tommy refuses to eat. Refuses to talk. And while the doctor tells Alfie that he should be out of bed for an hour or two every day now, to help him get his strength back, any attempts he makes at this are just met with stony silence. Alfie tries, still. Every day.

Today he’s baked fresh bread for breakfast in hopes of stirring some sort of appetite in Tommy. Though when he sets the tray down and Tommy just closes his eyes, it takes every ouns of self-control not to start shaking him.

“Know what, sweetheart, there are worse things in the world.” Alfie sits down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his arm. Gentle- he has to be gentle, no matter how fucking infuriating Tommy is. “It could work itself out. Said you might just need some time, he did. The doctor. And even if you have to learn it again, you did it once, right? Bet it won’t take too long once you put your mind to it.”

Tommy just rolls over, turning his back against Alfie and burrowing deeper into the pillows.

It’s been four days of this now, and Alfie’s patience is rapidly running out.

Knowing himself well enough to realise he needs to get out of this fucking room before he does something stupid, he leaves Tommy to sulk.

He goes out to the garden instead, where Charlie and Edith are building a house out of sticks for Horse. Cyril is sprawled next to them, chewing on one of the sticks and keeping a watchful eye on the situation. 

The afternoon sun is casting long shadows, enveloping the backyard in soft light and there’s a warmth in the air, promising the coming of summer in the not too distant future… Some of the tension melts from Alfie’s shoulders as Charlie waves at him and smiles brightly.

 Edith gets up, brushes some grass from her dress and comes to meet him, nodding in direction of the bedroom window.

“Still hiding under the covers is he?”

“Yeah. Think it’s sort of dawned on him. Just…“ _-how much is broken inside his head._ “All of it.”  

Edith nods thoughtfully.

“Bet some fresh air would do him good.”

Alfie looks up towards the window. At the closed curtains.

Yeah, there’s been enough of this bullshit now.

“Keep an eye on Charlie would you?” he calls over his shoulder, already on his way to the door.

“Absolutely not! Looking after children is _not_ part of my job as a nanny!” Edith exclaims with mock offence, actually succeeding in drawing a bark of laughter form him.

Alfie steels himself as he walks upstairs, knowing this might not be an entirely pleasant experience.

“Right, you’re getting out of that bed,” he states when he opens the bedroom door without the usual care. Then he pulls away the curtains, letting sunlight flow into the room. “One way or another.”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut when he pulls away the duvet. 

“Fuck off,” he mutters and covers his head with an arm. It’s more of a reaction than he’s gotten in days. But Alfie isn’t having any of this.

“No, see, we have a son down there. And a garden that’s finally thawing properly. Full of spring flowers and everything. And you’re spending at least a few minutes in the fucking sunlight today.” Opening one of the drawers with more force than strictly necessary, Alfie pulls out trousers and one of his own sweaters for Tommy, a large thing, knitted in thick yarn. “Even if I have to carry you out there.”

Tommy curls up into a tight ball, arms clasped over his head. It makes Alfie soften slightly, and he sits down, lowering his tone as he smooths a hand over his shoulder.

“Are you in pain? More than usual?”

He finally receives a tiny head shake in response.

“Well, then we’re doing this.” Alfie bodily maneuvers Tommy upright. “Now, are you cooperating, or will I have to wrestle you into these clothes?”

There’s no answer. Wrestling it is, then.

Ignoring that Tommy is still clasping his arms convulsively over his head and has his knees pressed against his chest, Alfie pulls the sweater over him, encasing him in a large cocoon of wool. Would’ve looked comical, if he wasn’t so fucking fed up with everything. He shoves a hand into the armhole and searches out a bony wrist that he tugs out through the opening.

“Stop,” Tommy snaps, his voice regaining some of its former strength as it comes from somewhere within the wool. It surprises Alfie enough to let him go. Tommy wrings himself loose and pulls the sweater over his head, emerging with glaring eyes and tousled hair. “I’m not a fucking child,” he huffs and bunches the too long sleeves up over his hands. Then he just sits there and scowls at Alfie, the sweater slipping off his shoulder and completing the look of a sulking child.

Fuck, he’s never been able to resist that pout… 

 Alfie can’t help it, he laughs.

And instead of wincing in pain at the sound, a smile begins to twitch in the corner of Tommy’s mouth. Reduced to wheezing now, because it’s been so fucking long since he had a proper laugh, Alfie watches the twitch turn into an actual smile. And then to a soft laugh that washes away the pained lines that are always etched around his eyes.

“Give me the fucking trousers,” Tommy mutters and gives him a weak shove, the smile still gracing his lips.  

Once Tommy is dressed, with some help from Alfie with buttons and shoelaces, there comes the question of getting down the stairs. With one arm around Alfie’s shoulders, and one of Alfie’s arms firmly around his waist, Tommy manages to make it way all the way to the first floor. It leaves him pale and shaking, and Alfie worries that perhaps he’s pushed too far.

“You alright?”

Tommy nods, taking a shaky breath as he leans into Alfie’s embrace. “Yeah. Just need a moment.”

The way to the garden goes smoother, but the moment they come out into the sunlight, Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and instinctively buries his face against Alfie’s chest. Cradling his head gently, Alfie leans down to whisper in his ear.

“It’ll be alright, love. If it’s too much, we’ll go back inside, yeah? I’ll look after you.”

Tommy eventually emerges from his hiding place, blinking in the sunlight. Alfie’s throat momentarily closes up. But then the crease between his eyebrows smooths out and the tension melts from his face.

“You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes out a long sigh, a smile stretching across his face. He closes his eyes; but this time only to turn his face against the sun and let the rays warm his pale cheeks. 

“Papa!” Charlie runs towards them on tiny, slightly wobbly legs, and a moment later, he’s clasped his arms around Tommy’s legs.

Alfie hoists him up onto one arm, still holding the other firmly around Tommy’s waist.

“You’re up!” Charlie exclaims and takes Tommy’s face between both hands and pats his cheek lightly. “We can play now!”

“We can,” Tommy says and turns his head a little, kissing his palm. He opens his mouth again, as if to say something else, but falters. His eyes search out Alfie’s.

“Why don’t you show us that thing you and Edith have been building?” Alfie offers and nods towards the stick structure. Charlie nods eagerly and demands to be let down. Alfie complies and they watch him run across the grass, trailing behind at a more moderate pace.  

Edith meets them halfway across the lawn.

“Look who’s finally out of bed,” she says with a pleased smile. “I’ll get started on dinner. Bet some fresh air will help that appalling appetite of yours, mister Shelby.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Tommy glances at Alfie. “Are you two co-conspiring against me?”

“Great minds think alike, eh?” Alfie shrugs innocently. “See, I knew there was a reason we liked her. Well worth the excruciatingly long fucking hiring process. Going through those other people.” He surveys the garden. “Now, let’s see if we can get you settled somewhat comfortably. Suppose we shouldn’t be overdoing it with the standing…”

Turns out, a tree trunk and a blanket is a quite good substitute for a bed, and Cyril happily stretches across Tommy’s legs where he sits by the large oak tree. Tommy strokes his back as he watches Charlie play, and all the weariness seems to wash away in the warm sunlight. It softens some of the edges around his jaw and cheeks as well, which weeks without proper food has left even harder than usual.

The sight unties that knot of worry Alfie has gotten so used to feeling at the pit of his stomach.

Charlie balances the sticks against each other, just like uncle Finn has taught him, babbling both to himself and Tommy about the intricacies of house building… Alfie gets the privilege of helping with this task, and does his best to listen to Charlie’s plentiful –if rather incoherent- instructions on the proper way to do it.  

For a while, things seem absolutely normal again. Alfie basks in the feeling.

When Edith comes out to announce that dinner is ready, Alfie tells Charlie to run ahead before helping Tommy stand up. Cyril offers some support too, and then sets off after Charlie, presumably to make sure he arrives safely at the door.  

As he leads him towards the house, Alfie can’t deny that Tommy is less steady on his feet now, and halfway across the lawn he stops completely, leaning more weight against Alfie’s side. Alfie ducks his head and tries to catch his eye.

“You alright, love?”

Tommy nods and continues walking. But after just a few unsteady steps, he folds himself against Alfie’s body again, breathing shakily into his chest. A shudder runs through his entire frame. 

 “Everything’s spinning…”  

Alfie quickly wraps both arms around him, steadying him as his legs give in completely.  

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he mutters, holding him tightly.” I’ll carry you the rest of the way, alright?”   

Tommy nods and lets himself be hefted up into Alfie’s arms, head resting against his shoulder. Fuck, he weighs nothing -impossible not to think about it now-

“Bedroom,” Tommy breathes into the crook of his neck, voice quiet and slurred… the way it is when his surroundings are suddenly too much to handle.

“Sure, sure love, I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

Tommy is pale as a sheet when Alfie puts him to bed, cold sweat beading on his forehead and jaw clenched tight in pain. Alfie goes to close the curtains.  

“Leave them,” Tommy says, eyelids batting open. The faint smile he gives Alfie should make him feel relieved, but only serves to further the guilt weighing down on his chest. It’s so incredibly painful, this, when Tommy is timid and fragile. So far removed from his usual self. Sulking is preferable. Hell, even the stony silence is…

“I’m sorry,” he kisses his forehead, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Should’ve kept an eye on you. Probably overdoing it a bit, spending an entire afternoon out of bed just like that-“ 

“Not your fault,” Tommy mumbles and closes his eyes. “Just- just need to rest a little.”

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Alfie whispers, head still bowed.

Tommy shakes his head. “Go eat with Charlie.”

Alfie leaves him with a final kiss on his brow, and Tommy already seems to be asleep when he carefully closes the bedroom door.

“Is papa not eating?” Charlie asks the moment Alfie sits down at the table.

“We’ll take some food upstairs for him,” Alfie tells him. “He needs to rest now.”

Charlie nods in that heartbreakingly thoughtful way. And Alife wishes he didn’t have to… understand so much.

“But maybe we can go and keep him company after we’ve eaten,” he offers, silently hoping Tommy will have recovered a little bit then. The suggestion cheers Charlie up, and he happily goes back to eating his dinner in that more or less chaotic manner that leaves plenty on the floor. But at least Cyril is happy about that.

Tommy does look considerably better when they enter the bedroom a while later. Some of the colour has returned to his cheeks, and he smiles at Charlie when he climbs up onto the bed.

“Are you going to be in bed again now?” Charlie wonders and stuffs a thumb into his mouth, a habit he still falls back into when he’s worried about something.

“Don’t worry, love. I’ll be up tomorrow,” Tommy promises and sits up as Alfie places the tray on the nightstand. “I just got a little tired.”

Charlie seems pleased with this answer, and begins fashioning a nest out of the duvet that he curls up in.

For once, Alfie doesn’t have to coax Tommy into eating. The slight crease still appears between his eyebrows when he looks down at the precut food, but he doesn’t complain, instead beginning the slow process of getting the food from the plate to his mouth. He holds the fork a bit awkwardly, and between every bite, he puts the utensil down for a little while.

But he eats.

And he looks tenderly at Charlie, patiently listening as he goes on and on about all the different things they’ll do now when he can be out of bed.

He’s trying. And it’s all Alfie can ask of him right now.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“So, love… here’s the thing… I promised Charlie he could come with me to the stables tomorrow. Been asking for weeks now, he has.”

The statement only elicits a hum from Tommy, muttered into the crook of Alfie’s neck where he has buried his face. Alfie strokes his back, hoping to find the proper words by staring up at ceiling through the darkness of the bedroom. He’s trying to tread carefully with this thing, unsure of how Tommy will react to the proposition.

“And I thought, to myself, right, that maybe you’d like to come along,” he continues, finally. “Been out of bed nearly two weeks now, haven’t you? Wouldn’t be a long affair. Just a few hours or so.”

Tommy is silent, and Alfie continues to gently run his palm over the contours of his spine. “Reckon it’d do you good. Get out of the house properly for a little while. See other people. Not that other people count for much, just part of the whole package, ain’t they? And maybe it’d be good for you to...” _Do something besides hide in the drawing room with a stack of old newspapers… ”_ Yeah, see some of those”

When the silence drags on, he eventually adds: “And it’d make Charlie really happy if you came along.”

“Alright.”

Alfie cranes his neck and tries to catch a glimpse of Tommy’s expression. Tommy settles a hand on his chest and props his head up onto it.

“It’s… it would probably be good.”

He offers up a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Very few of his smiles seem to do that these days. Alfie tries not to think about it.

And there’s something in Tommy’s eyes that Alfie can’t quite decipher. It’s rare, that he can’t pick up on the little shifts in them; Tommy often says far more with his eyes than he does using words. So there’s always a danger when he can’t read them. 

Running the hand up along his neck to card through his hair, Alfie looks into those eyes and tries to figure it out. “We got a deal then?”

Tommy settles his head back on his chest and yawns, relaxing into his embrace as he wraps a leg around Alfie’s and shifts a little closer. “Sure.”

He’s closed his eyes now, so Alfie can’t tell what other things he might be saying right then.

_Sure._

For now, he’ll have to settle for that.

...

The next morning, they’re standing in front of the bedroom mirror as Alfie helps Tommy shave. While he’s learnt control his hands enough to do things like fasten buttons, this is something Alfie refuses to let him do on his own. Not yet, at least. Having an razorblade grazing your neck when your hands might at any moment slip seems like an overall terrible idea. Had Tommy not been so meticulous about his shaving, he never would’ve degraded himself to this, which he pointed out the first time Alfie did it. But he is. So he has no choice but to accept it, and does so with only a few minor complaints when Alfie misses a spot. Which really is more often than not in the beginning. Though as Alfie’s slowly improved over the weeks and Tommy’s learned to ‘live with it’, it’s developed into a rather nice little routine. There’s something comfortingly domestic about the whole thing.

Alfie furrows his brow in concentration as he tries to avoid nicking the sharp line around Tommy’s cheekbone with the razorblade, before gently wiping the last bit of shaving cream off.

“There we go, eh, all done,” he states, feeling quite pleased with himself. “Think I’m really getting the hang of this, wouldn’t you say?” Putting the razor down, he goes to search out the shirt he definitely, absolutely, threw somewhere on the floor last night, but that has since then mysteriously disappeared. “Still can’t understand how you put yourself through that almost every day. Not that I’m complaining. Not at all. Well known fact that I enjoy seeing every last bit of your fair features- Tommy?” He turns to face his very silent companion.

Tommy is standing by the mirror, eyes fastened on his own reflection and fingers tracing along the line of his collarbone where it sticks out from under the neckline of his undershirt. Tilting his head a little to the side, he drags the nails along it, creating an array of red lines. Slowly. Experimentally almost. Another scratch follows the first-

Alfie quickly walks up behind him, reaches around and takes the hand into his.

“Sweetheart, what’s are you doing?” His eyes search for Tommy’s in the mirror.

For a long moment, Tommy just stands there, silently watching his own reflection with a look of utter detachment. And _fuck_ is scares the absolute life out of him… Alfie presses a soft kiss against his skin, right in the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. Forces himself to keep his voice calm.

“Penny for your thoughts, love?”

Tommy blinks, turning away from the mirror and distancing himself from Alfie as he goes to the closet in search of a dress shirt.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “Just… guess it’ll feel strange. Being around other people.”

_No, no that’s not it at all._

But for once, Alfie can’t bear to ask again. Not right now. It’ll have to wait.

He’s quiet as Tommy focuses his attention on the buttons, waiting for him to finish the slow process of buttoning them all, the whole thing taking twice as long as usual. Then he speaks up: “Charlie is really happy you’re coming along. Only thing that matters, innit?”

Tommy nods, shrugging into the jacket Alfie holds up for him.

-

Alfie may be known to exaggerate on occasion –he’s not above admitting that- but this isn’t one of those times: Charlie is so excited he can barely sit still during the car ride, and Tommy ends up pulling him into his lap in an attempt to keep him from climbing out a window or something of the sort.

“Are you happy?” Charlie asks Tommy and tugs at the lapel of his coat. “To see the horses?”

“Of course,” Tommy smiles down at him. “But I’m most happy about seeing the horses with _you_.”

Beaming, Charlie nods to himself and looks out the window at the green landscape passing by outside. Alfie reminds himself to focus on the road ahead rather than the sight next to him, despite the beauty of it all making that a challenge.

But when Charlie has been quiet for an uncharacteristically long time, he glances away from the road again to catch a glimpse of the frown that’s settled on his otherwise smooth forehead. Alfie opens his mouth to address this, but Tommy beats him to it.

“What are you thinking about, Charlie?” he asks and cocks his head, attempting to catch his eye. Still frowning, Charlie fidgets a little with his shoelace.

“I don’t want to see the mean horse.” 

“Which horse is that, love?” Alfie asks, despite having a pretty good idea already…  

“The horse that kicked papa” Charlie pouts. “It’s mean. I don’t want it to be there.”

Yeah, neither does Alfie, really. But Tommy refuses to let May sell the creature, and Alfie doesn’t want to push the matter. They’ve got enough shit to deal with as is.

They exchange a glance, he and Tommy, before Tommy looks back down at Charlie.

“The horse isn’t mean,” he explains, gently taking Charlie’s small hand into his to keep him from making the shoelace come undone. “He just got really scared. And horses can’t tell anyone that they’re scared. That’s why they kick.”

“The horse should say sorry,” Charlie insists. “If you hurt someone, you say sorry.”

“I’m sure the horse is sorry. But it wasn’t his fault.”

“Are you not angry at the horse?” Charlie furrows his brow in confusion this time, squinting up at Tommy in the sunlight streaming into the car.

“No.” Tommy makes a pause. “Sometimes, bad things just happen, and it’s not really anyone’s fault.”

Alfie’s eyes linger briefly on the long scar running along Tommy’s scalp. It’s barely visible now, when the hair has begun growing back. But he still sees a faint glimpse of the thin, red line.

Yeah. _Bad things_ alright.

Charlie settles back in Tommy’s arms, looking out through the window again. Still quiet as he contemplates this. Must be a hard thing to grasp for a child, that concept. Alfie’s got some trouble himself on some days, wrapping his head around it.

Charlie is silent for a long time, but then a herd of sheep catches his eye, and for the rest of the journey, he seems to forget about the mean horse.

“Now, remember, no running around the stables. Or the yard. Horses are nice and all, but they’re really large, aren’t they?” Alfie reminds Charlie as he stops the car on the stable yard, giving the area a onceover to make sure there are no horses in the immediate vicinity that Charlie might decide to run up to.

Charlie nods eagerly, once again struggling to stay still. Hadn’t it been for Tommy taking his hand the moment they climb out of the car, he most likely would’ve forgotten all about Alfie’s reprimand and set off straight across the yard at breakneck speed. But he jumps up and down at Tommy’s side as they walk towards the stables.

Alfie stays close to Tommy, fighting back the urge to constantly ask how he’s feeling. It should be fine. There haven’t been too many fainting spells after the one in the garden a few weeks back, and even then it usually happens in the afternoon. If he’s been on his feet for too long. Or there’s been too many overwhelming impressions. But Alfie hasn’t figured out all the things that trigger it.

So he stays close.

Tommy’s eyes are flickering across the stable yard, unable to focus on one spot it seems.

“It’ll be fine, love,” Alfie whispers, brushing a hand lightly over his shoulder. “I know it’s a lot. I’m here. It’ll all be just fine.”  

Tommy only nods.

They take a tour around the stable first and Charlie is delighted to see that his favourite horse is indoors today. Though which exact horse that is seems to vary. Should he be asked to choose, Charlie would most likely pick every single horse in the stable.

Tommy lifts him up into his arms almost effortlessly to allow him to pet one of the older mares, a docile creature who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Alfie tries to bite back a wide smile, not to make a whole affair out of it.

“Remember to pet carefully,” Tommy tells Charlie and beckons the horse closer. Nodding solemnly, Charlie very gently runs his fingers through the mane, a delighted giggle bubbling up when the horse moves his head a little closer. Tommy smiles widely. And Alfie is so fucking happy in that moment he wishes he could just freeze it completely. Stay in it forever.

They stop by each and every horse in the stable –thankfully most of them are in the pasture, lest they’d be there the entire day. It’s still a lengthy process, with the time Charlie wants to spend by each of the animals. Though Alfie thoroughly enjoys it; Tommy’s eyes seem a bit brighter with every minute he spends in there. Except when he’s accosted by one of their employees wanting to offer various words of encouragement.

“Never been this well-liked in my entire life,” Tommy mutters under his breath when he’s been told for about the tenth time that it’s good to see him back on his feet.

“Yeah, well, everyone’s been concerned, haven’t they?” Alfie says just as quietly. “And it’s basic human decency, I’d say. Just go along with it.”

Tommy offers no reply to this. Instead he turns his attention back to Charlie, who’s having a great time feeding a sugar cube to the current object of his attention, a grey stallion.

“I want to jump in the hay!” Charlie declares when they finally leave the stable. When Tommy doesn’t answer, too busy blinking in the strong sunlight, Charlie instead looks up at Alfie, who takes his hand.

“Well, it’ll be a while before they take it indoors,” he tells him. “So there isn’t much to jump around in. But the second they do, I promise you can be in it, alright?”

“When’s that?”

Alfie’s not sure how to tell him this event is almost four months away. Charlie is quite patient for his age, but four months is an absolute eternity for a child…

Right then, May comes walking across the stable yard, and Charlie quickly becomes busy waving to her, forgetting all about the hay for now.   

“Hello Charlie,” May says and smiles.

“Hello Miss.” Charlie reaches out a tiny hand for May to shake -a gesture that makes Alfie beam with pride- before occupying himself with examining a dandelion in the gravel instead. May, meanwhile, studies Tommy with a sharp crease between her eyebrows as they shake hands.

Alfie wishes they were sat at a table so he could kick her in the shin. Not a very chivalrous thing to wish for, granted, but the scrutiny is just fucking unnecessary.

“It’s good to see you,” she says finally. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Tommy answers stiffly, clearing his throat.

“Well, that’s good to hear.” The crease is still present on May’s forehead. “Are you coming back to work or…“

“Not yet,” Tommy says. “I’m… this is just-“

“Miss Carleton!” He is cut short when a stable hand with red hair –maybe Alfie should bother learning a few more names- comes up to them. “Tristan dropped one of his shoes during training today. We’re not sure for how long he -“ The man appears to suddenly discover Tommy standing opposite May, and looks at him as if he’s seen a fucking ghost. Tommy shifts uneasily on his feet. Alfie clears his throat and sets a stern gaze on the man, finally making him snap out of his stupor and tip his cap awkwardly. “Mister Shelby, it’s good to see you back on your feet.”

Tommy reprises the rather stiff ‘thank you’ he’s been giving everyone else that day, and the stable-hand continues, addressing both May and Tommy now.

“Well, as I was saying, Tristan’s dropped a shoe-“

Alfie isn’t quite sure how it happens, but suddenly Tommy has been dragged into a longwinded discussion on the matter of this lost shoe and a potential injury in the hoof, with not only the stable-hand and May, but one of the jockeys who stop by to give his opinion…

Perhaps Alfie should’ve given this whole thing a bit more thought –he hadn’t really considered all these people. Or perhaps he’s just forgotten how helpless everyone seem to be without Tommy and May around here…

Alfie has to fight back the urge to simply take Tommy by the arm, state that they’ve got more important matters to deal with, and lead him away from the conversation. Something like that will definitely not be well received by Tommy… And this is normally Tommy’s area of expertise, so he just stays silently by his side as he watches him struggle to keep up with the quick exchange of words.

And Tommy mostly gets away with simply nodding in acknowledgement until May turns directly to him.

“What do you think we should do, Tommy?”

A moment of complete silence follows the question.

“I… I'm- ” Tommy stutters and moves ever so slightly closer to Alfie, suddenly looking like a deer in headlights. 

Well, that’s his cue.  

Alfie clears his throat. 

“Well, not that all of this isn’t a bloody riot but, I promised Charlie we’d go down to the pastures,” he says firmly, placing a hand on Tommy’s back. “And I think everyone here is equipped to deal with this without Thomas.”

“Oh, sure-“ May blinks at him, raising both eyebrows, but quickly turns her attention to the remaining participants of the discussion to carry on. 

Alfie reaches out a hand for Charlie to take and quickly finds himself being tugged across the yard, still holding the other hand firmly on Tommy’s back as they leave the group behind.

“It’s alright, love,” he says quietly.

Tommy is silent, staring blankly straight ahead, jaw clenched tight. Alfie rubs his shoulder. It’s tense under his palm.

“Tommy, it’s alright,” he repeats. “They understand.”

“I just need- I-“ Tommy mumbles and shrinks away from the touch, suddenly veering to the left.  

“Papa!” Charlie calls out, and the forlorn tone in his voice makes Alfie’s heart twist. Then ignites an angry spark as he stares at Tommy’s retreating back. “Where’re you going?”

Without acknowledging the call, Tommy disappears around the corner of one of the buildings, and Alfie is left with Charlie on the path, debating on whether to follow him or not. He should. He definitely should, because it’s not safe for Tommy to be all alone- And he’s upset-

“Where is papa going?” Charlie tugs at his coat sleeve, breaking him out of his thoughts. His bottom lip is quivering slightly.  

No. Fuck it. Fuck all of it.

Right now, there’s someone who needs him more.

Alfie hoists Charlie up in his arms.

“I think he just needed to be alone for a little while,” he says, forcing down the anger as he opts for a soft tone. “But how about we go to the pastures anyway? Bet the horses will be happy to see you.”

Charlie nods slowly, still not looking fully convinced. But Alfie sets him back on his feet and they continue their walk down the path as it leads them through a small forested area towards the larger pastures.

The moment Charlie reaches the fence surrounding the pasture, his entire face lights up.

Nothing like some horses to brighten the mood, is there? He is his father’s son after all…

Alfie helps him climb the fence and stands behind him to ensure he won’t fall off as he sits there watching the grazing horses. A warm breeze makes the leaves rustle above them and it sweeps away some of the anger still simmering in his blood. Hard to be angry, when Charlie is smiling and looking at the horses with wide eyed fascination.

For a while, Alfie allows himself to be there in the moment.

And not think of Tommy.  

His bad mood has disappeared entirely when he an hour later is carrying a rather exhausted Charlie on his back as he returns to the stables.

Once he’s reached the car, he carefully deposits Charlie in the passenger seat, waving over one of the more reliable stable-hands.

“Charlie’s asleep. Keep an eye on him, would you? ”he says, pinning him with his eyes. “And by keep an eye I mean stand here by the car and not blink until I get back, yeah? Because if something happens, and I really do mean even the most fucking minor event, this rather fine and pleasant day will suddenly become really fucking unpleasant for you. We clear?”

The nod and mildly terrified look he gets in return tells him the message has been received.

Now to see where Tommy has run off to…

With the anger long gone, all that’s left is the normal chafing concern.  

Somehow, it feels like it’d be just their luck if Tommy has gone ahead and collapsed somewhere…

But Alfie doesn’t have to worry for long, because when he turns the corner of one of the buildings, he’s hit by a waft of cigarette smoke carried with the wind.

Tommy is stood by the fence surrounding a smaller enclosure, watching a familiar black horse grazing there. Azra chews calmly on a tuft of grass by the far edge of the paddock, looking perfectly peaceful. As if he’s never cracked a skull open in his entire life. As the gravel crunches under Alfie’s feet, he looks up, ears twitching.

Alfie comes to stand next to Tommy, settling his elbows on the fence and hunching over it. 

Tommy takes a long drag on the cigarette and exhales the smoke towards the ground.

Eventually, he speaks. 

“Is Charlie alright?”

“Sure,” Alfie grunts. “Perked right up when we got to the horses. He’s asleep now. But he… yeah, he got a bit upset when you just disappeared like that.”

Tommy stares at the ground, blowing more smoke towards it. Despite the warm breeze, his hands are trembling when he brings the cigarette to his lips.

Alfie should’ve made him put on another layer of clothing.

“It… it was too hard,” Tommy finally says, voice barely above a whisper. “All those people. I can’t- couldn’t fucking hear myself think.” Another lungful of smoke that dissipates in the wind. “Like my brain was just… burning.”

Alfie’s shoulder sag as he lets out a long breath.

“Yeah, well, if it’s any consolation, I feel like that a lot of the time when people are talking.” He bumps his shoulder against Tommy’s, offering him a crooked grin, but the cold stare tells him the joke wasn’t appreciated.  

Tommy studies Azra as the horse raises his head and turns towards them, still chewing calmly. Perhaps if Alfie had some more faith in the animal, he’d say their eyes meet then, his and Tommy’s… 

Azra takes a few slow steps forward, before stopping and finding another grass tuft. Alfie’s eyes linger on the large hooves.

There’s a lot of weight resting on those. 

In his head, he hears that crunching sound again. 

_If he’d been a little faster-_

_If he hadn’t hesitated for that fraction of a second-_

_If he-_

“Did you see the way she looked at me?”

Tommy’s whisper drags him out of the thoughts and Alfie furrows his brow. “Who? May?”

Tommy’s eyes are completely glazed over, once again turned towards the ground. Alfie rests a hand on the back of his neck.

“Tommy?”

Blinking, Tommy suddenly straightens up and stubs the cigarette out on the fence pole.

“Let’s go home.”

 He starts making his way towards the yard, leaving Alfie no choice but to follow.

Charlie is still asleep when they reach the car, and remains that way when Tommy picks him up and climbs into the passenger seat, settling him on his lap. Alfie relieves the stable-hand from his post

When he’s climbed into the car and closes the door, Charlie yawns, shifting a little in

Tommy’s arms. Then he opens his eyes and blears up at him 

“You’re back!” he smiles sleepily and nestles closer

Tommy strokes his hair. “I’m sorry that I disappeared. That wasn’t a nice thing to do.”

Charlie yawns again and rubs his eyes. “Why did you go?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tommy says after a moment’s hesitation. “But it wasn’t your fault. Alright?”

Charlie hums a little, burying his face in Tommy’s coat, before falling back asleep.

Tommy glances at Alfie.

Alfie reaches out and runs his fingers through his hair.

Then he turns the car around and begins driving down the gravel road.

…

They don’t get a moment to themselves until they’re in the bedroom later that evening. At least not a long enough moment for Alfie to start digging into the day’s events. It’s usually a lengthy ordeal, things like that.  

The silence in the bedroom is stifling, the air laden with all the things that need to be said.

Tommy won’t be the first to speak. And Alfie feels at a loss right then, unsure of what exactly he _wants_ to say. 

He begins undressing instead, focusing on something concrete. Simple. Such as unfastening buttons. Hanging his clothes over the back of a chair… Searching for a clean undershirt in the drawer…

When he finally turns back to Tommy, he finds him standing before the mirror, staring at his own reflection. Without the suspenders over his shoulders, the trousers hang below his waist, accentuating the still far too pronounced hipbones. The rest of his clothes lie forgotten at his feet.

Tommy’s fingers trail over the sharp angles of his collarbone again, like they did this morning, nails digging into the skin and leaving behind red lines. There are already quite a few of them there. More than Alfie remembers there being earlier.

Coming up to stand behind him, Alfie takes the hand again, wrapping an arm tightly around his waist and tugging him back against his chest.  

Just like he did this morning.

Tommy is tense in his arms.

The red lines litter his sides too, angry scratch marks running along the ridges of the protruding ribs. Alfie wonders if he missed those this morning. Wonders for how long they’ve been there.

Their eyes meet through the glass of the mirror.

“Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself,” Tommy whispers, eyes shifting to stare at his own reflection. Alfie rests his chin on his shoulder. Holding him close, trying keeping him from falling apart. He can always tell when it’s about to happen.

“You’re just a bit sharper around the edges right now,” he says softly. “That’ll sort itself out. Nothing to worry about.”  

“You saw- you saw the way they looked at me,” Tommy says, shifting uneasily in his arms. “All of them.” Alfie holds him a bit tighter, presses a kiss against his temple. 

“They’re worried. I know it’s really fucking hard, alright. Being surrounded by all of that. But the next time will be easier.”

When Tommy tries again to twist out of his grip, Alfie admits defeat and lets him go. Watches with an increasing feeling of helplessness as Tommy escapes from the reflection and slumps down on the edge of the bed, looking down at his hands.

“It’s not just that…” He swallows thickly, wringing his hands to hide the tremors that have begun wreaking them. “It becomes so fucking clear. When I’m around other people. That I’m not… that there’s something wrong.”

He scratches at the skin on his bony wrists.

Alfie sits down next to him and takes both hands into his, holding them tightly.

“You’re still healing up. It’ll take time. A long fucking time even. But the important thing is that it’s getting better, innit?”

Tommy closes his eyes. Takes a shaky breath in through his nose.

“But what if… if I-“  

Then he’s out of words and falls silent.

Alfie lets unfinished sentence hang in the air for what feels like an eternity before finally breaking, cradling Tommy’s head between his hands.

Fuck, he wishes he could look straight through his eyes into his brain and _see_ what he’s thinking…

“Tommy, I know this is hard but just- fuck, just  _try_ to tell me what’s wrong. I can tell there’s something…”

It feels stupid to ask. So fucking stupid. Because there are a million fucking things that could be wrong…

_What’s wrong, love?  
_

_The headache?_

_That you can’t read?_

_Can’t walk down the stairs on your own?_

_Can’t keep a conversation going with more than one person at a time?_

_Take your pick…_

Tommy shakes his head, curling inwards on himself under his gaze, his breaths coming in unsteady gasps, hands trembling as he clutches them to his stomach. 

It’s been a long time since Alfie saw him like this. Years. But it’s still heartbreakingly familiar.

Like clockwork, Tommy’s breathing hitches and the air begins getting caught in his throat.  No use asking any questions now. Tommy can’t hear him in the place he’s now.

“Alright- no need to talk, love- we don’t need to talk at all. Come here,” Alfie whispers as he pulls him into a tight hug, cradling the back of his head and guiding it to his shoulder. “I’ve got you. You’re alright. You don’t have to say anything.”

Tommy hides his face, pushing himself closer.  

Still holding him tightly, Alfie lies down on the mattress and pulls the duvet up around them. Trying to anchor Tommy in warmth and safety.

Tommy is shaking, breathing raggedly into the crook of his neck. Wound so tightly it feels as if his muscles are about to snap.

“Just breathe,” Alfie whispers into his hair. “In and out. You’re safe. I’ve got you…”  

He keeps repeating it like a mantra, the soothing nonsense, muttering the words quietly as he continues holding Tommy.

Slowly, slowly, Tommy retreats from whatever dark place his mind has led him to.

The tension begins to melt from his shoulders.

He stops shaking. The breaths that came in stifled gasps against Alfie’s skin smooth out.

And finally, one of the arms unfolds from where he clutches it against his chest and wraps around Alfie’s back instead.

The question still lingers on the tip of his tongue

_What’s wrong? What are you not telling me?_

But he can’t bear to ask again.  

So he just holds him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your support and kind comments sustain me! So please feel free to share your feelings/thoughts/frustrated yelling


	5. Chapter 5

Alfie’s back hurts. It’s seized up completely over the past week, and come Saturday, it’s resulted in a splitting headache. Which in turn has resulted in a rather bad fucking day. Tommy hides in the drawing room as usual, barely coming out to eat, so he’s left alone to deal with Charlie who’s decided to be in a terrible mood, fussing and crying all afternoon.  So it’s one of those rare occasions when Alfie feels a guilty sense of relief once he’s put him to bed and finally has a moment to himself. In silence.

After letting Cyril out into the backyard, Alfie finds himself lingering in the doorway watching the slowly setting sun. Cyril barks and wags his tail, looking almost expectantly at Alfie. He could use a proper walk. Alife too. And Tommy should really get some air as well… But Edith isn’t here, and Charlie can’t be alone. As he ponders this, his eyes fall on the bread loaves on the kitchen table, which he should’ve put in the oven already…Can’t be leaving those out any longer, or they’ll spoil.

All things considered, he really should stay in and take care of… fucking everything.  

For a long moment, he considers it. Then he shoves the bread into the warm oven, and goes to the drawing room.

Opening the door without knocking, he stands himself on the threshold and waits for Tommy to acknowledge him. He doesn’t. Just keeps staring down at the paper in front of him, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m taking Cyril for a walk,” Alfie tells him, leaning against the doorframe. “There’s bread in the oven. Could you take it out in half an hour? And check on Charlie? Make sure he stays in bed.” Clear, precise instructions. Shouldn’t be too fucking hard to follow. “It’s Saturday, so Edith’s not here,” he adds when Tommy just waves his hand dismissively.   

“I know what fucking day it is,” Tommy snaps and shoots him a glare.

Alfie resists the urge to snap back and instead says a silent prayer for patience. Grits his teeth and takes a slow breath in through his nose.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he grunts, before leaving the room and slamming the door shut with a bit more force than he intended.

As he makes his way towards the hallway, he whistles for Cyril, who instantly comes prancing through the house, tongue hanging and tail wagging. The sight lifts his mood considerably, and he decides to take the long route around the fields today.

The walk definitely helps.  

Instead of chasing unfortunate rodents, Cyril walks right next to him, a calm, steady presence as he traverses the fields. Possibly sensing Alfie’s in need of one of those right now.

Being out of the house makes the tension melt from his jaw, and as he walks over the rolling hills, watching the setting sun, he feels some semblance of peace returning. Even the frustration directed at Tommy fades.

He should bring Tommy here, on their next walk. Perhaps Edith could stay a little longer and keep an eye on Charlie some evening. They could use some time, just the two of them. Thinking about something nicer than a cracked skull and all that. Maybe it would cheer him up. It’s worth a try, at least…

When a light drizzle begins falling and he steers his steps back home, the headache has disappeared and his heart feels a little lighter.

He steps out of his muddy boots on the hallway carpet. Before he can even close the door behind him, the smell of something burning hits him like a putrid wave, and he sets off towards the kitchen. 

Of course, fucking _of course_ something like this would happen…

The room is enveloped in a misty cloud of smoke. He averts the fire hazard by pulling the blackened loaves out of the oven, throwing them and the baking sheet into the sink. Muttering curses under his breath, he goes to open the window to clear out the smoke. Cyril slinks past him, disappearing further into the house, barking loudly.

“Cyril!”

For fucks sake, he’ll wake Charlie up…

He follows Cyril, and finds him in the next hallway, seated by a small, pajama-clad figure on the rug, receiving a hug.

“Hi daddy!” Charlie waves at him with a small toy car clutched in his hand.

Alfie’s eyes snap from between Charlie and the staircase.

“Someone’s up and about.” He forces himself to smile as he kneels next to him. _Everything’s fine- Charlie is safe- there’s no fire- everything is-_

“I’m not tired,” Charlie states firmly and drives the car up onto Alfie’s leg. Trying to swallow down his frantically beating heart to get it back in his chest where it belongs, Alfie lifts him up onto his lap.

“Did papa bring you down here, love?”

 “No, I went all by myself! Like on the slide,” Charlie explains proudly and illustrates the motion with a sweeping hand gesture. “Swoosh!”

Alfie gets to his feet, trying very hard not to picture that scenario as he looks at the long staircase and the hard floor beneath it. His stomach is making unpleasant jolts.  

“Alright, there’ll be no more swooshing down the stairs. Not on your own, at least. Can we agree on that?” 

 Charlie nods, driving the car along Alfie’s shoulder while making a rather convincing impression of an engine.  

Everything is fine- No harm done. There’s no fire. Charlie is fine. _Everything is fine._

But there _could_ have been a fire. And Charlie _could_ have fallen down the stairs- And Tommy has apparently decided to neglect fucking everything and that’s just- Yeah he’ll hear about this, won’t he? Alfie’s got half a mind to-

“The car is on a mountain now!” Charlie exclaims and puts the car on Alfie’s head, effectively pulling him out of the increasingly dark thoughts. Alfie hums and carries him towards the stairs.

“Think that the car would rather be in bed. That’s the proper place to be. It’s getting late, innit?”

“Not tired,” Charlie repeats, but lays his head against Alfie’s shoulder and snuggles closer.

As opposed to Charlie’s own statement, he does seem tired, because he’s already half asleep when Alfie tucks him into his bed.

“Stay daddy,” Charlie mumbles as he stands to leave, opening his eyes ever so slightly. Alfie sinks down onto the bed, smoothing his hair back. Stops thinking of what he’ll say to Tommy about this..

“Of course, love.”

Yawning, and clutching Horse a little tighter to his chest, Charlie closes his eyes.

Alfie lingers in the bedroom long after Charlie has fallen asleep.

Eventually, Cyril comes into the nursery and settles heavily next to the bed. When he raises his head and gives Alfie a somehow very pointed look, Alfie finally goes downstairs.

The anger that had simmered down to something tepid and harmless bubbles up again, and once he reaches the drawing room, it’s boiled up to that dangerous thing that completely numbs his senses. He shouldn’t be near Tommy in this state, some tiny, logical bit of his mind tells him. It’s the sort of anger that gets people killed. Makes his vision go black, and when he can finally see again, he finds himself with bloody hands and a body to dispose of.

When he slams the door open, Tommy jumps in his seat and looks up, the look of surprise turning into a faint smile when he sees Alfie. But it fades just as quickly. 

“Alfie-“

“So apparently Charlie’s learnt to go downstairs on his own now.” Alfie grits out through clenched teeth, crossing his arms over his chest. “A fun little tidbit of information for you. And yeah, our kitchen was nearly on fire. Anything else that’s happened while I was gone?

Tommy furrows his brow. “But-“

“I know you don’t give a shit about anything involving the kitchen, but how the fuck could you just leave Charlie to fend for himself?” Alfie snarls. “You know you need to check on him! How anyone can be that fucking self-involved is fucking beyond me.”

The thought of Charlie, of what could’ve happened is enough to make him lose what little hold he had on himself.

“Am I asking for too much here?” he spits, pacing back and forth in front of the desk. “Is it not fucking enough that I do absolutely everything to keep things from falling apart in this house? While you’re just hiding out in here. Can’t leave the house for _one fucking hour_ , is that how it’s going to be now?”

Tommy looks up at him, all big blue eyes and long eyelashes and _fuck_ Alfie wishes he’d stop looking at him like that. Wishes he’d get angry.  

Tommy’s voice has lost all its strength when he speaks. “I didn’t-“

Alfie slams his palms down onto the desk.

“This can’t be how you’ll be from now on. Completely useless-“ _Fucks sake, what are you saying?_ “Charlie could’ve- fuck, what if he’d fallen down the stairs? Because you can’t be bothered to think of anyone but yourself-“ he sucks in a breath, but Tommy has stopped trying to speak. _Go on, get angry-_ “Maybe you could scrape up what’s left of your brain and at least _try_ get it to work. But I guess it’s too much to ask, yeah? For you to take care of your own child for one bloody hour.”

 Tommy stares up at him. Alfie waits for the ice to settle in his gaze, the way it usually does when he’s hurt. Waits for the walls to come up. Or for a furious retaliation- any of the normal responses. He expects it, wants it to happen to give him an excuse-

An excuse to do what?

But Tommy just sits there silently, lowering his gaze. Alfie should’ve seen the warning signs; Tommy is never the first to break eye contact during a fight…

The words just pour out of some dark pit that’s opened up in his head..

“And fuck I’m trying, alright, but I’m at the end of my bloody rope here. Don’t know if I can keep this up- Because you’re _so fucking hopeless_ -“

He hears the words as if it’s someone else saying them as he spits them at Tommy. Because they are so fucking awful and vicious and _how the fuck could he say something like that to his Tommy who he loves more than anything in this entire world-_

Something breaks inside of Tommy. Alfie can see it happen. In his eyes. Then, he’s suddenly out of the chair, around the desk and Alfie gets just enough of a glimpse of his face to see the tears before he flees the room.

The door slams shut.

Alfie grips the edge of the desk. Tries to breathe. The anger is ringing through his head, making it impossible to think straight. Everything is just red hot blood pumping behind his temples-

He grabs the paper splayed on the desk and crumples it up, just to have something to do with his hands- Throws it across the room. His fingers close around the table lamp next, the cold metal digging into his palm.

 _Breathe_ -

He doesn’t throw it, just grips it hard enough for his knuckles to whiten.

_Fucking breathe…_

And he breathes. In and out. Until his grip on the lamp weakens.

Until finally, like a storm passing, the anger does too.   

Alfie slumps down in the chair behind the desk, all energy draining from his limbs and pouring down between the cracks of the floorboards. He closes his eyes. Caught in a moment of utter numbness as it dawns on him what he’s done.

The look in Tommy’s eyes lingers, as if it’s carved itself into the inside of his eyelids.

He opens his eyes to stare at the wall instead. But even keeping his gaze straight ahead feels like too much effort, and it slips to the desk.

It’s a right mess. The kind Tommy will usually mildly scold him for making of his own desk at the office.

There’s a notebook splayed open on the blotter, pages filled with inky scribbles. These large, scratchy letters. As if a child had written them. Alfie sees his own name written there, over and over again, in long rows. Then Charlie’s. Flipping through the pages, he sees more names, written in that same way. There’s a slight improvement from the very first pages to the latest, but it’s pretty marginal.

His heart clenches at the sight.

Hidden under another newspaper, he finds Charlie’s favourite story book, the one he always wants Tommy to read, over and over again. While doing ‘voices’ – one of Tommy’s lesser known talents that Alfie never really could contend with according to Charlie. Been asking for that book, he has. Alfie figured it was just lost somewhere in the house…

The drawers are filled with more notebooks, and the letters in these are even more unintelligible. Page up and page down filled with them. Then, in the bottom drawer, he finds one where it’s not even letters, just these jagged lines. Cutting across the white surface like scraggly waves. Some of the pages are torn out. On others, the ink is smudged and the paper crinkled from wetness.

It all paints a heartbreaking image of someone trying to put their life back together.

He slumps forward in the chair. Cradles his head between his hands as he rests his elbows on his knees and just stares at the floor.

It’s not Tommy’s fault. Or perhaps it fucking is, he can’t tell anymore how much he can hold him accountable for. And even if it, is there’s no excuse for- for all those things Alfie said… It’s always been Tommy’s greatest fear, that one day Alfie will give up on him. Used to ask all the time in the beginning; why do you put up with me? Why do you love me- _tell me again that you do-_ Over the years, as Alfie stuck to his word, he’s stopped asking. Perhaps because he finally believed Alfie when he promised, over and over again that he’d never leave.

But it’s still the one thing he can’t threaten to do-

A wet nose bumps against his leg and he turns to see Cyril sitting there on the floor, gazing up at him with those big eyes. He lays his head in Alfie’s lap. Alfie scratches him behind the ears. Got a sixth sense for distress, that dog…

“What do you say? Reckon I should go apologize?” 

Cyril straightens up and wags his tail, a yes if there ever was one.

“Tommy?” Alfie calls when he leaves the study, quickly making his way towards the living room where he expects to find Tommy smoking on the sofa. Most likely going against the doctor’s orders by drowning his sorrows in whiskey, too. The apology is already on the tip of his tongue -they can resolve the incident with Charlie after that. First he needs to apologize, soothe the guilt before it suffocates him. Fix that thing his words broke inside of Tommy.

But the living room is empty.

He continues his search upstairs, brow creasing. In the nursery, Charlie is fast asleep, and there’s no sign of Tommy.

Bedroom then…

But Tommy isn’t there. Alfie so badly _wants_ him to be that he even walks up to the bed to make sure he’s not missing a small figure hiding under the blankets. But the bed is painfully empty.

And he’s not in one of the guest rooms either.

And not in the bathroom.

When Alfie returns downstairs, he feels cold sweat break out on his back. Not because he doesn’t know where to look next, but because he knows all too well…

As if on cue, a loud crash rings through the house. Screeching hinges and a metal handle slamming against rough bricks. He follows the sound with a steadily climbing feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, the air growing colder with every step he takes towards the hallway.

The front door slams against the house’s façade again, hanging wide open in its frame. A gust of wind bursts in through the opening, dragging along droplets of rain that splatter across his face as he walks over the wet floor.

Alfie stands in the doorway staring out into the garden.  

“Tommy?”

It’s dark outside now, and pouring down with rain, so he barely sees a thing as he follows the path leading up to their house on unsteady feet.

“Tommy? Sweetheart, I’m sorry-“ Who is he calling out to? He won’t be here. Not after- how long did Alfie sit there in the drawing room? _How far could he have gotten?_ “Tommy?”

The only answer he gets is from the wind, howling around the branches of the apple tree. The splattering of rain against the leaves. And nothing else.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Alfie paces. Up and down the corridor, through the kitchen, out in the hallway. Stands in the doorway waiting. Restless.

Maybe if Charlie hadn’t been asleep upstairs, he would’ve gone out there immediately to start searching. But knowing that he can’t leave him alone puts him in a state of anxious waiting instead.

 _One hour._ He’ll give it one hour.

It’s been a long time since Tommy stormed off like this, but he always comes back. He just needs some space -Alfie tries to tell himself that. Any second now he’ll come back. Alfie won’t even scold him for getting himself soaked and ice cold, just apologize for everything. Wrap him up in a blanket in front of the fireplace- Tell him how much he loves him and-

A clash of thunder outside makes him flinch involuntarily, eyes snapping to the clock. Not even half an hour has passed since he checked that first time.

A branch slaps against the windowpane as a gust of wind tangles into the leaves. The heavy rainfall hammers against the roof. Absolutely fucking awful weather. And Tommy is out somewhere in the middle that.  

Because this isn’t like those other times.

This isn’t London or Birmingham, where the promise of a warm pub to drown one’s sorrows in lies just around the corner. Or a sheltered place to chain smoke cigarette’s is right near-by.

There is nowhere to go. Nothing but endless hills shrouded in rain and darkness…

Suddenly, the front door slams open, and his heart leaps in his chest. Making his way out into the hallway, Alfie already has a fully formed apology on his tongue, so he falters when it’s John standing there, with two unfortunate pheasants hanging from his hand.

“Oh, it’s you,” he says dumbly, stopping on the threshold and feeling his heart sink again.

“What a warm welcome,” John chuckles, wiping his muddy boots on the carpet in a vain attempt to get them clean enough for traversing the floors.

“Well you did just fucking barge in without knocking, didn’t you?”  

“I did knock. You just didn’t hear it. And I told you I’d come by with these. Talked about it yesterday…” John gives up on the boots and pulls them off instead. “I’m sort of regretting getting out in this weather, though. Fucking… pouring down now.” The pheasants knock into Alfie’s arm as John holds them out for him to take. “Fucks sake, mate, cheer up, I’ll leave in a bit-“

“No, no it’s just… I thought you were Tommy,” Alfie mutters and accepts the birds, eyes still scanning the rain shrouded landscape outside.

“You let him out in this weather?” A crease appears between John’s eyebrows and Alfie, much to his annoyance, feels his cheeks burn. He turns and walks into the kitchen in an attempt to hide this.

“Wouldn’t exactly put it like that,” he grunts, lugging the birds up onto the counter. “Making it sound like he’s some housecat I’m in charge of. We had a bit of a domestic. Nothing more. Just a little fight.”  

 “And you just let him storm off?” The accusation is clear in John’s voice now.  

“Let him and let him… He usually does whatever the fuck he wants, doesn’t he?” Alfie mutters and tugs at his beard, pacing the kitchen floor again. “For fucks sake, sounding like Arthur, there. You’re usually slightly less… insanely overprotective.”

“Yeah, well, Tommy doesn’t usually have a cracked skull,” John counters, crossing his arms over his chest. “Were you planning on looking for him?”

“I’ve got a son sleeping upstairs so I’m really fucking sorry I haven’t gotten that far yet,” Alfie snaps. Then he runs a hand over his mouth, adding as an afterthought, “He’ll come back. Always does, see. He just needs some time to calm down.”  
“Yeah, that sounds like bullshit to me.”

Alfie ignores him in favour of staring out the window again. The barrel collecting rainwater by the shed has tipped over, and is now rolling over the lawn. Should’ve put a rock or something at the bottom of that, shouldn’t he? It comes to a halt by the wall bordering the field, where the backyard ends.

“How long has he been gone?”

“Would you fucking ease up with the bloody questions.” Alfie scowls at John over his shoulder, turning to face him and mirroring his standoffish pose, arms folded over his chest. Reluctantly, he glances at the clock. _Fuck._

“Little over an hour.” _But that’s a fucking lie, innit?_ Must be closer to two. Maybe more…

The creases on John’s forehead deepens, and his eyes turn dark.

“Yeah, he’s not coming back, then,” he states. “People aren’t out in weather like this for over a fucking hour if they _just need some time to calm down_. Something must’ve happened.”

They’ve got a vase on the table, full of forget-me-nots. Charlie’s picked them for Tommy. It’s one moment, one impulse away from being thrown across the room. But Alfie settles for just gripping his own arms a little tighter.

“Really?” he spits. “Well I’m glad you’ve got everything so fucking figured out. Maybe you could just go ahead and tell me what to do, eh? Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me all about what my husband is thinking and feeling? Since you’re apparently the fucking expert.”

John clenches his hand into a fist and takes a step closer, but right then a clash of thunder outside makes them both jump. Somehow, it breaks the tension, and Alfie feels his shoulders sag, the anger draining as quickly as it came.

“I need to go look for him.”

“I’ll come with you,” John offers, already moving towards the hallway, but Alfie snags his wrist.

“Someone needs to stay here with Charlie.”

John turns around, looking quite offended, “So I’m on fucking babysitting duty all of a sudden.”

He jumps out of the way before Alfie can smack him over the shoulder.

“Fucks sake, you’ve got three kids. And he’s asleep. Think you can handle it.”

John doesn’t look pleased.

“You got a plan or something? How’re you supposed to find him? Not like in Small Heath where you could just go to the Garrison.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Alfie grunts, leaving the kitchen.  
Not that he’s got any intention of figuring anything out at all. No, his only plan is to get out of the house. Out of the house, find Tommy- His entire body is crawling with restless energy that finally finds an outlet, and he ignores John calling his name as he pulls on his coat.

The rainfall outside feels more like standing under someone pouring out buckets of icy water, and the wind nearly knocks him back in through the front door as he opens it.

Alfie finds himself standing on the road outside their gates, looking both ways and wondering what the fuck to do now. Where to even fucking start. He settles for the direction leading towards the stables. _Warm. Safe_.

The walk is a fucking miserable affair in more ways than one. He’s soaked through within minutes, the coat weighing heavily on his shoulders, and he can’t even hear himself think. The wind fucking blows straight through his head, leaving his brain feeling utterly empty. But none of that, none of that actually matters. The guilt is worse. The worry. _If he just finds Tommy, nothing else will matter._

Every now and then he calls out for him, struggling to make himself heard through the wind. And the wind is the only one who answers, each time.  

It’s worse when he reaches the open fields. The raindrops seem heavier, the wind stronger. Alfie finds himself stopping then, gazing out over the vast landscape. It’s like searching for a needle in a fucking haystack. He should’ve taken the car. Driven straight to the stables and searched through them. Formed a fucking plan. Walking at this pace it’ll take him upwards of an hour just to get there and then what? Of course he should’ve taken the fucking car. But his brain has decided to stop working completely . Because all he can think of is Tommy being out somewhere in this weather, hurt and alone. And how those awful words will be ringing in his head as he stumbles through the darkness _You’re so fucking useless…_ God, how could he say that?

What if something’s happened? What if those were the very last words he’ll ever-    
A sudden wave of nausea comes over him and he has to brace himself against the fence bordering one of the fields. He shakes his head, as if he’ll be able to physical rid himself of the thoughts. They’re no fucking use. He’ll find Tommy. Of course he will.

But this isn’t working. He needs to go back. Fetch the car.

The walk back somehow feels even longer and he’s painfully aware that it must’ve taken him over an hour, this idiotic detour. And every passing minute feels like grains of sand in an hour glass, pouring down, running out-

Alfie throws the door open and begins fumbling through the hallway closet in search of the starting handle, struggling to get his stiff hands to cooperate.

“ _Now_ are you gonna listen?” John is standing in the doorway. Alfie only grunts in response. _Where is the handle? And why the fuck do they not keep it in a more reasonable place?_  “For fuck’s sake, call Arthur. Get someone to help you.”

“Just here to get the fucking car.”

Having finally found the handle, Alfie is already on his way out the door again when John grabs his arm.

“Alright that’s enough. You’re clearly not fucking thinking here, so I’ll do it for you,” he says firmly. “Call Arthur. Or I’ll do it the second you walk out that door and he’ll come after you like a rabid dog. Because if something’s actually happened, you’ll regret not doing everything you could to fix it.”

Alfie fixes his gaze of John. It’s a rare moment of complete sincerity. Of course John’s decided to become all mature and logical all of a sudden… And he’s right. Fucking hell he’s right.

“That’s a conversation I look forward to.” Alfie digs his fingers into his eye sockets. “Bloody hell, if anyone’s gonna come up with a way to physically strangle someone through the phone, Arthur would be the one.”

Another clash of thunder seems like a sign from above that putting off this call won’t make anything easier, and he leaves John standing in the hallway and goes to have his head bitten off.

Several signals go through, but when someone picks up, at least it’s Arthur’s gruff voice on the other end, and Alfie isn’t forced to go through the procedure of explaining the whole situation to Linda.

“Yeah?”

Alfie clears his throat.

“Sorry to bother you with, yeah, whatever task you’re up to at this hour.” The sudden nervousness makes him ramble. “It’s just- yeah, me and Tommy, right? We had a bit of… bit of a domestic. And he’s been out for an alarmingly long walk. Considering he can’t really walk that far yet- and the weather-“

“What did you do?” Arthur asks bluntly and Alfie scratches the back of his neck.

“Fucks sake, mate, don’t you and Linda ever have disagreements? It was-“ Nothing. He’s about to say nothing. But he can’t bring himself to lie, and he heaves a sigh. “Alright, I said some pretty shitty things. And he- fuck, could you just come along and help me look for him?”

For quite a while, there’s silence on the line.

Alfie is just about to ask if Arthur has gone mute when a reply comes. 

“He’s here.”

 _He’s here._ Tommy is-

And just like that, Alfie can breathe again. He sinks down onto the chair next to the phone, the relief washing all the strength from his muscles.

_Thank God._

“He’s there?” he croaks out, his voice blocked by an unexpected lump in his throat.

“Found him wandering along the road on my way home from the shop,” Arthur mutters. “All… lost and confused. He’s sleeping on the sofa right now.”

Closing his eyes, Alfie fills his lungs over and over again, the relieved laugh impossible to hold back. He doesn’t even think to ask why the fuck Arthur didn’t call him… Because Tommy is okay, he’s safe, and soon, Alfie will have him back in his arms and everything will be alright…

“I’ll come and get him.” The silence following the statement makes him antsy. “Arthur, you fucking died or something over there?”

“I think he should stay here for now.”  

Alfie has already stood up.

“I’m coming to get him,” he says. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Twenty. Something like that, just need to get the car going.”

“Solomons I fucking swear-“  

Alfie hangs up.

“He’s with Arthur,” he tells John, who’s stood in the doorway to the kitchen, clearly listening in on the call. “Could you stay here? Just while I go and pick him up?” It’s one of those orders formulated as a question, and Alfie is already on his way to the hallway, barely listening to John’s muttered answer. Though he quickly changes his course to the bedroom instead, just to get out of the soaked clothes. Because all he can think of is wanting to give Tommy a warm, dry hug when he gets there.

“I’ll be breaking into your liquor cabinet. And eating your food.” John tells him as he passes the kitchen again. Alfie allows himself a dry chuckle.  
“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”  

He’s outside Arthur and Linda’s home in less than fifteen minutes from the moment he hung up the phone. The drive on the muddy road isn’t an easy one, and he shudders again at the mere thought of Tommy being anywhere near these roads.

The door opens, and he just gets a glimpse of Arthur’s frowning face before being delivered a hard punch square in the shoulder, which causes him to stumble backwards.  

“Alright, fucking hell, calm down,” Alfie grunts, barely keeping himself from falling down the steps. Arthur refrains from throwing another punch, but is firmly planted on the threshold, blocking the doorway. Alfie regains his bearings and raises both eyebrows. “You gonna let me come inside?”

“I don’t think so,” Arthur grits out. “I told you over the fucking phone. Think it’d be better for him to stay here.”

Alfie squares his jaw and bores eyes into Arthur’s

“I don’t want to get violent here, but I will if that‘s what it takes…”  

They stare each other down in a moment that reminds Alfie of those first few years, when they had everything from mild dislike to outright hostility between them.

Finally, Arthur backs down, allowing him to step inside.

“Boots off. Linda will be pissed.” 

“Where’s Tommy?”

“Told you on the phone, he’s asleep,” Arthur grunts over his shoulder, leading the way through the house. He pauses outside the dimly lit living room and nods towards the sofa. A small figure covered with several blankets is huddled up in the corner, and all that’s visible is a mop of dark curls. It makes Alfie’s heart swell with relief none the less.

“Is he okay?” he whispers.

Arthur’s face is still set in stone, and it takes a moment before he answers.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, he’s alright. Not hurt, if that’s what you mean. Not badly at least. His feet are a bit worse for wear.” Alfie opens his mouth, but Arthur beats him to it. “He wasn’t wearing any fucking shoes. And it looks like he’s been crawling through a fucking bush. His arms are all scratched up.” The accusation is clear in his voice, but it softens as he adds: “But he was mostly just cold. Tired. Really fucking confused.”

Alfie nods. Furrows his brow

“Said you found him on the side of the road? Which road? Why-”

Arthur -the fucking bastard- has the gall to grab him by the arm and drag him away to the kitchen.

“Sit.”

Alfie crosses his arms over his chest, but when Arthur pulls out a chair and knits his eyebrows together in a stern look, he gives up. Can’t be fucking bothered. So he finds himself seated by the kitchen table with a glass of whiskey while Arthur observes him darkly, pouring himself a glass too.

“Did he tell you what happened?” Alfie asks finally. Shrugging, Arthur leans back in his chair and juts his chin out.

“So, there’s something to tell, is there?”

Fucking hell, it’s been a too long day for this bullshit.

Alfie rubs his temples. “We just had a fucking fight. Don’t you and Linda have those?”

“Sure. But they don’t usually end with one of us storming off to wander aimlessly down a road in pouring rain.”

A jab of pain shoots through Alfie’s skull and he stands up. Fuck it.

“This is fucking ridiculous. I’m taking him home now.”

The chair scrapes against the floor as Arthur stands up, hands slamming down onto the tabletop.

“Solomons, you take one step towards that room and I swear I’ll fucking shoot you in the face,” he snaps, eyes oddly wide now. Wide, bordering on maniacal. The look of someone who’s just found his little brother in the middle of a storm, lost and alone. Had to see to injured feet and scratched arms. And now he’s staring at the man responsible for it.

Slumping back in his seat, Alfie folds his arms over his chest and waits for Arthur to say his piece.

Arthur sits back down with a huff.

“I need to know that he’ll be safe if he comes home with you,” he says, sounding completely and utterly serious. And yeah, that hurts a bit, doesn’t it? Alfie can’t deny it. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Thought we’d gotten past this point.”

“So did I.”

Alfie looks into those eyes again.

He wonders if Arthur could tell that Tommy had been crying. If he was still crying when he found him…

But something tells him that Arthur would’ve aimed that punch at his face instead, then.

He would’ve deserved it.

There’s a long stretch of silence. The rainfall outside is still just as steady, and the wind howls against the windowpane. Alfie looks out into the darkness again.

Then, Arthur finally speaks up, his voice is softer now. Tired.

“It’s just… I’ve never seen him like that. And he didn’t want me to take him home. You… get how that looks, right?”

Tommy didn’t want to come home. He-

“I might’ve… calmed down a bit,” Arthur goes on. “Over the years. But fuck, mate, It was fucking awful. Had half a mind to drive to your house and- yeah, not shoot you maybe, but at least give you… a very stern talking to.”

Alfie lets out a snort. “Getting soft in old age, are you, Arthur?”

Arthur’s mouth draws into a tight line under the moustache. 

“I get that it was a fight,” he says. “And that it’s never just one person’s fault and all that shit. But you should’ve seen him.” He shakes his head. “Was like talking to a scared kid. Barely knew where he was. And it was just dumb fucking luck that I found him. If I hadn’t been working late… ” 

For once, Alfie doesn’t know what to say.  
Arthur sighs, swirling the whiskey in his glass, before downing it all in one gulp. “Fuck it. Go and see if you can wake him up. But be careful. He’s not… all there in the head it seems.”

Alfie empties his own glass in the same fashion, before getting to his feet.

The huddled figure on the sofa hasn’t moved, and he seats himself by Tommy’s feet, reaching out to run a hand over his calf. Tommy stirs uneasily under the blankets, the arm covering his face falling away to reveal a pair of bleary eyes. He blinks, looking around the room as he tries to orient himself. When he sees Alfie, he sits up, pulling his legs out of reach. His own clothes have been replaced by something from Arthur’s closet, and the garment dwarfs him.

For a long moment, they both just sit there: Alfie watching Tommy, Tommy looking down at his hands. The hug that Alfie wanted to pull him into remains as only a thought, because Tommy is shrinking away almost warily from him. Alfie sighs.

“Want to go home, love?”

Tommy glances up at him.

“Do you want me to come home?” There’s no venom behind the words, just heartbreaking insecurity

Alfie reaches out then, but Tommy shies away from the touch and he lets the hand fall.

“Of course.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, but he swings his legs over the edge of the sofa, and that will have to be enough for now.

Arthur insists that Tommy keep one of the blankets for the ride home, fussing over him all the way to the door, where Alfie is handed a pile of sopping wet clothing.

Tommy stands by his side, quiet and closed off, looking down at his bare feet, and the bandages covering them. He tries to refuse when Arthur wants him to borrow a pair of his wellies, but apparently doesn’t have the energy to put up much of a fight and just steps into the large boots. Alfie can’t help smiling faintly at the sight of Tommy wrapped in a blanket and with too large boots going up to his knees.

Tommy mumbles something about going to the car, and Arthur pats his back awkwardly.

Then it’s just the two of them again. Alfie heaves a sigh. Here goes nothing…

“Thanks. For… All of it.”

Arthur rubs the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “Yeah, yeah. It’s all fine. Just… try to keep him at home. And be patient. Fuck, I know that you are. Never would’ve held up for this long otherwise.” He studies the rainwater dripping from the clothes onto the floor for a moment before adding, “And if you need help, with Charlie or, I don’t know… that big fucking dog. Or the garden- whatever. Just pick up the fucking phone alright?”

There are things Alfie would like to say to Arthur. A lot of them.

But he just nods instead, before going out in the rain.

The ride home is quiet. Tommy pulls the blanket tightly around his shoulder and leans against the car door, eyes fastened on the raindrops trailing down the windowpane. Alfie leaves him be, focusing his attention on the road ahead. Trying to ignore the chafing feeling of having broken something not just in Tommy, but between them.

And he doesn’t know how to fix it. 

Still sat on his post in the kitchen when they enter, John looks quite comfortable, feet propped up on a chair and with Cyril’s head resting on his lap. Tommy slinks past him, disappearing towards the staircase. Alfie begins hanging the wet clothes over various chairs.

“He okay?” John wonders, stretching his arms and yawning. 

“Sure,” Alfie mutters. “Sure, he’s fine. Just been a long fucking day. Go home to your kids now. I appreciate the help and all that.”

John gets out of the chair, gives Cyril a final pat on the head and disappears out the door, squeezing Alfie’s shoulder just in passing.

Tommy is already in bed when Alfie enters the bedroom. The blanket is in his lap now, being picked at by restless fingers. Alfie seats himself opposite him on the bed.  

“I forgot,” Tommy finally whispers, fingers burying themselves deep in the blanket.

Alfie resists the urge to just vomit up the long and intricate apology he’s been repeating in his head the past hours, instead giving Tommy time to find the words.

“That’s- I forgot that you weren’t home. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s like parts of my head just stop working.” Tommy picks at the threads in the blanket. Swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no sweetheart, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Alfie says and takes the hand to stop Tommy from creating a hole in the fabric with his fidgeting. “And fuck, all those things I said, there’s no excuse for shit like that. I-“

“Stop.” Tommy glances up at him. “You don’t- I know that it’s hard for you. That I’m… fucking hopeless right now.”

God, Alfie hates himself for putting those words in his mouth. But he also knows no apologies will pluck them out of there. The only thing that will is more time. More reassurance. He holds on tightly to his hands.

“Been a while since you stormed off on me like that,” he says instead. Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit he falls into for want of other options. “Want to tell me what happened there?” he coaxes. “Arthur told me you were in a bit of a state when he found you.”

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t remember the way back,” Tommy says quietly. “I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble. I just needed some air and- and then I suddenly couldn’t remember where I was.”

He pulls his hands out of Alfie’s grasp to begin fidgeting with the blanket again.

“If you don’t want to- if you can’t do this anymore, I understand.”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand if you want to leave. If you want _me_ to leave.”

The words hit him like a punch in the gut, and Alfie sits there speechless. Then he reaches out for Tommy, wants to hold him, pull him close and ask for forgiveness- try to fix this. But Tommy stands up and backs away. Creates distance. Puts up walls.

“What if this is it?” he says, voice shaking. “What if I don’t get any better and- and you waste the rest of your life on me?”

“Tommy-“

“You’re right, I’m hopeless-,” Tommy’s nails rake down his wrists. “This this is all hopeless.” The shirt rides up over his arm, showing off a myriad of red marks. His voice has gone so quiet that he seems to be talking to no one but himself, “You’ll see that soon enough. And you’ll stop loving me and- and I’ll have to watch it happen and- I’d rather just, just not be here-“

Tommy stares down at his hands as the nails tear at his forearms. Watches the droplets of blood that pool around one of the deeper scratches. They trail down the pale skin, leaving a crimson path as it disappears underneath the sleeve.

Alfie stands up, grabs Tommy’s wrists, keeping him from further injuring himself. “Now, you listen to me, Thomas Shelby,” he says. “I loved you _every single fucking second_ you laid in that hospital bed. When you didn’t even fucking recognize me. When you couldn’t talk.” He cradles Tommy’s face between his hands, thumbs brushing along the cheekbones. “And I wake up every single fucking morning, and I’m so grateful that you’re still here. That I’ll get to love you every day for the rest of my life. Nothing will ever change that.”

Tommy meets his gaze, eyes wide and full of pain. Voice barely above a whisper when he speaks:  “What if it doesn’t get better?”  

“Then we’ll… take it from there. Figure something out. We’ll figure all of it out.”

As always when Tommy finally reaches a breaking point, it begins as just a small crack. And then it spreads. Starting around his eyes as he squeezes them shut, continuing to the eyebrows that knit together. Then his face just falls and tears begin seeping down his cheeks as the first sob wracks his frame. 

Alfie pulls him close, and Tommy finally allows himself to be held, burying his face in the fabric of his shirt.

They’re long overdue, the tears. And they come like a flood. All the months of pain just pour out in an incoherent stream of sobs and muffled cries.

Seating himself on the bed with Tommy on his lap, Alfie wipes away the tears, mutters soothing nonsense. Holds him close. All those things he’s learned over the years. Things that usually help.

He kisses his forehead, keeping his lips there as he whispers: “I can’t promise that… you’ll be able to read again. That your memory won’t be patchy anymore. Fuck, I wish I could. But I can promise that no matter what, it’ll be okay.”

Tommy shakes his head again, the sobs drowning out any words he might’ve wanted to say. Right then, there’s so much utter hopelessness in his eyes that Alfie can’t fucking bear it. He strokes his hair, fingers gently tracing the long scar alongside his skull. His hands may be good for many things, but they can’t do anything to fix whatever has broken inside Tommy’s head.

So he just holds him.

Until the door creaks open.

“Why is papa crying?” a quiet little voice comes from the doorway. Charlie is standing there with Horse clasped in his arms.  

“It’s okay Charlie, go back to bed.” Tommy quickly wipes the tears away with the back of his hand as he slips down from Alfie’s lap. But his shoulders still shake as he tries to choke back the sobs. Charlie frowns and rubs his eyes.

“Not if you’re sad.”

Tommy opens his mouth, desperately searching for something to say, but then seems to deflate completely, sagging against Alfie’s side and burying his face in his chest again. Alfie rubs his shoulders soothingly. He considers his options for a moment before reaching out for Charlie.

“Come here, love.”

Charlie toddles over to them, crawling up onto his lap with some help.

“Is papa’s head making him sad?” Charlie pets Tommy gently, the tiny fingers combing through his hair.

Tommy looks up again, wipes more tears away as he tries to give Charlie a reassuring smile, “A little. But it’s okay. Nothing to worry about.”  

“I kiss it better.” Charlie leans forward and presses a kiss onto Tommy’s forehead with a loud smack for extra effect. “Is it better now?”

Tommy lets out a soft laugh. And something glints in his eyes. Something that breaks through the hopelessness. “Yeah, it’s a little better.”

“I’ll kiss it lots,” Charlie promises. “And it’ll get better really quick.”

Tommy cradles the back of his head and returns the favour. Charlie in turn wraps his arms around his neck and hugs him tightly, giggling as Alfie lifts them both up onto his lap. And when he hugs them tightly and Tommy buries his face in the crook of his neck, he actually believes his own words, at least for a moment.

 It’ll be okay.

They’ll figure it out.

...

 “Daddy!”

Alfie awakes from the sensation of someone very small climbing on top of him, and opens his eyes to find himself staring up at Charlie, who’s very comfortably seated himself on his stomach with Horse in his arms.

“Morning, love.” Alfie glances around the room, blearily trying to get his eyes to focus. “Awake already, are you?”

“Yes! Me and papa are a lot awake,” Charlie tells him and nods. Alfie has indeed noticed that Tommy is missing from his spot next to him, and he wonders if he’s already shut himself in the drawing room again-

But he doesn’t have to wonder for long, because Tommy comes into the bedroom, still wearing that old flannel shirt he always sleeps in. With the addition of Alfie’s sweater, which is bunched up around his wrists to allow him to hold the tray. Yeah, despite the dark circles under his eyes, and the red lines marring his hands, it makes for quite a sight…

“Charlie, thought we’d agreed to let daddy wake up on his own,” Tommy chides gently, setting the tray down on the nightstand before seating himself on the bed and lifting Charlie from Alfie’s stomach and into his own lap.

“It’s awake time now!” Charlie exclaims. Tommy pulls the sweater sleeves down over his hands, leaning down to press a kiss onto the top of his head. “We made food!” Charlie points to the tray, on which Alfie now discovers a bread basket and a jar of marmalade together with the teacups and pot.

“You’ve been baking, have you love?”

“Cones,” Charlie confirms, nodding proudly, adding after a moment of hesitation. “Papa helped too.”

“Just a tiny bit,” Tommy says, smiling down at Charlie and stroking his cheek. “You did all the important stuff.”

Forgoing a dumb joke about whether the kitchen is still standing or not, Alfie finds himself with a lump in his throat and suspiciously blurry eyes. Tommy’s gaze is soft when it meet his.

“So, after nearly ten years, some of my good sides are finally beginning to rub off on you, love? What have I done to deserve this sort of treatment, eh?”

“You haven’t tasted them yet,” Tommy whispers in his ear as he leans over to grab the basket, quietly so Charlie won’t hear. “Might regret that reaction:”

They could be burnt and taste like sand for all Alfie cares. But they don’t. The taste is not entirely unrelated to the situation, sitting in bed with Tommy next to him, patiently helping Charlie eat his scone without making too much of a mess. And Cyril snoozing peacefully at their feet.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today then?” Alfie wonders when breakfast is over and done with, and Charlie has crawled over to the foot of the bed to pay Cyril some attention. Most likely to feed him a scone, too. “Must be something I can do to repay being spoiled like this?” He quirks an eyebrow at Tommy, which is gains him two raised ones in return.

“Well, Charlie and I figured since we’re all a bit tired,” Tommy yawns, curling up against his side. “And there wasn’t much sleep last night, we’d just stay in bed today.” He reaches for the storybook on the tray, before settling his head comfortably on Alfie’s shoulder. “And first we’d like you to read to us.”

“Read all day!” Charlie squeals with delight and dives in under the covers at the foot of the bed. Alfie watches fondly as the small figure travels upwards until it eventually emerges by the pillows. He runs a hand through the mop of hazel curls on his head.

Charlie makes himself comfortable between them and looks up at Alfie. Sinking a little deeper into the pillows, Tommy gives him a similarly expectant look. Alfie adjusts the glasses to the bridge of his nose.

“What story should we read then?”

“Little white horse!” Charlie decides and starts flipping the pages to find the story. Alfie helps him before one of them meet with a very wrinkled fate.

“We read that just yesterday, didn’t we?” Alfie of course flips to the right page never the less. 

“It’s the goodest one,” Charlie says. “Papa also thinks so. Right?”

“It  _is_ the goodest one,” Tommy agrees buries his nose in Charlie’s hair, making him giggle.

The sound fills Alfie with warmth all the way from the pit of his stomach to his chest. 

“How come this surpasses all the others then?” he wonders. “It’s full of riveting tales this, innit? And still that’s the favourite.”

“It has _horses_ , Alfie.” Tommy glances up at him, and Charlie nods eagerly. Alfie  squeezes them both a little tighter against his side.

“Fine then,” he chuckles. “Anything for you, love.”

Right then, the events of the night seem like nothing but a bad dream.    

The rainfall outside has lost all the threatening ambience, and now it just feels like a comforting hum as it patters against the windowpane. And the wind has calmed to a soft breeze. Tommy is safe in his arms, his forehead finally free from both pain and worry lines. A few of the scratch marks are visible where his knuckles peak out from under the too long sweater. But he smiles when Charlie takes a fistful of the sweater into his hand, burying his face in the soft fabric. A real, bright smile that washes the weariness from his eyes. Alfie smiles too, presses a light kiss onto his forehead, and then begins to read.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Things do get better.

There’s that saying, right -it’s always darkest before the dawn- and Alfie of course realises it’s a bullshit cliché, but he can sort of understand it now.

Because things do get better.

At least for a while.

A few days pass after the fight and Tommy’s subsequent barefoot walk through the storm, and he obediently stays in bed to rest his torn up feet. And sleep. Thankfully, he doesn’t catch pneumonia or something of the sort, which Alfie somehow expects. But no, apparently God deems that Tommy’s got enough on his plate already, and all he gets is sore feet and a light cough that’s bound to go away with a few good days' rest.

Alfie thinks he might be imagining it, but he seems more at peace with the bedrest this time, too. Perhaps it’s because he knows for sure that it’ll end soon, can see the all the injuries heal up. 

Charlie keeps Tommy company; builds forts at the foot of the bed with pillows, or brings all his toy cars and spreads them out on the duvet. He hasn’t fully grasped the use of the cars yet, and treats them more like pets than anything else. Sure, he can drive them along Tommy’s leg while mimicking motor sounds, but will just as soon tuck them in under the blankets next to him. Tommy seems happy to indulge him, and listens intently when Charlie tells him and the cars bedtime stories.

And Alfie feels more at peace than he has in months.  

But after five days of this, which is longer than Alfie expected, Tommy becomes restless.

“Are you going to the office today?”

Alfie looks up from his shirt buttons to Tommy, who’s sat on the bed with the teacup he brought him.

“Figured I’d swing by. Make sure all the buildings are still standing and all that. But I’ll stay home if you want some company.”

“I thought- thought I’d come with you. For a while,” Tommy says, adding with an uncharacteristic note of hesitance, “If you want me to.”

Alfie smiles. “Of course. How’re your feet, then? Hold up for walking?”

“They’re fine.” Tommy pulls a foot out from under the duvet and holds it up. “See?”

Something about the almost childish eagerness makes Alfie’s chest absolutely ache.  

Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he takes the ankle and presses a kiss against it. “Fine then. Guess you’d better get dressed. Or I might change my mind and just stay here in bed with you.”

Tommy is out of the bed before he can even finish the sentence.

“So, how do you want to do this?” Alfie turns to Tommy as he parks the car on the stable yard. “Want me to look intimidating and fend people off, eh? I can do a bit of that. Or do you feel up for talking?”  

“Think it’ll be fine,” Tommy says, lights a cigarette and climbs out of the car. Alfie follows suit. “I can keep up with you now. Even when you’re at your most incoherent.” He quirks an eyebrow at him over the hood of the car. “Which is always.”

Alfie makes a noise of feigned offence, secretly reveling in falling into the familiar banter as they make their way towards the office.

Tommy does seem more relaxed this time, he notes. More grounded. And they’re in luck, because everyone is too caught up to drag either of them into some long conversation, and interactions are limited to just quick greetings. So they make it to the office unscathed. Alfie unlocks and opens the door, holding it up for Tommy.

“After you, dearest.”

Rolling his eyes, Tommy walks past him and into the office. He stops in the middle of the room, eyebrows furrowing as he takes in his surroundings.

It’s not until then Alfie remembers the whole… trashing every object in the office debacle.   

“Alright… either my memory has completely stopped working, or something is different in here.” Tommy looks inquiringly at Alfie, before walking up to his own desk and studying the newly framed pictures. The new table lamp. The replaced chair.

“Yeah, well, there- there was a bit of an incident, wasn’t there? Yeah. Nothing major,” Alfie mutters as he hangs his coat up. He glances at the photos. “It’s a shame we don’t have any paintings of you. Not only a shame, reckon it’s some sort of crime, really, not having your face depicted on anything but blurry photographs. They don’t do you justice-“

“Don’t change the subject. What happened to our office?” Tommy asks, seeming rather amused.

“I happened to it, alright,” Alfie grunts. Unwilling to recall that incident. “Or, this whole fucking thing happened to it.” He runs his fingers through his beard, avoiding to look at Tommy and going to sit at his desk instead. “It was nothing-“ He hopes that waving a hand will further illustrate the point. “Just, you know that the wiring doesn’t always connect up here. And you weren’t there to keep it in order.”

He glances up at Tommy, who is holding one of the photographs in his hands. “No,” he says, putting it back down. “I wasn’t.”

Tommy walks around Alfie’s desk and leans against the edge of it, studying the new ashtray.

“I forget sometimes. That- that I was in the hospital for so long. That you had to deal with all of this on your own.”

Alfie shrugs. “Don’t concern yourself with that, love. Here now, ain’t ya’? Safe and sound. All that matters.”

Nodding slowly, Tommy runs a finger along the edge of the ashtray.

“You were there a lot. At the hospital”

It’s a statement, rather than a question.

“Yeah well- wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to be, was there?” Alfie pauses. “Do you remember anything? Before you woke up? Or before you could… Yeah, before you realised where you were?”

They haven’t spoken about this topic. Hasn’t been much time for that, has it? No, of course there’s been _time_. But Alfie has spent all of it trying to focus on the here and now. Think forward. Carefully avoid remembering the weeks in the hospital.

Tommy looks out the window. Quiet.

When he eventually answers, it’s in a quiet sort of voice. Distant, as he continues looking at the blue sky.

“It was mostly just… this nothingness. Not unpleasant, really, just like… being asleep,” he says. “But then sometimes it was more like- like being under water. Maybe that’s when I began waking up. And every now and then I’d be a little closer to the surface.” Tommy turns his eyes to Alfie, then. Reaches out and takes his hand where it rests on the desk. Runs his thumb along the knuckles.

“I could hear you talking sometimes. Or feel that you were holding my hand. Don’t know if I fully… understood what it meant right then. But I knew you were there. It helped.”

Alfie lets the following silence linger.

Although he spent the first years after the war filling every second with noise, unable to handle the silence, he’s found himself not minding it all that much since Tommy came into his life. Learnt to appreciate it even.

Tommy holds his hand, running his thumb over the wedding band and then along the knuckles again. Alfie squeezes his hand. Their eyes meet. The barest hint of a smile crosses Tommy’s face.

Then, he goes to open the window and light another cigarette.

Alfie opens a ledger that has been left on his desk, sighing when he stares down at the numbers filling the pages. May has apparently decided that now would be a good time for him to catch up on all the paperwork he’s been neglecting for the past… well, months, really.

“Why didn’t you let me hire a fucking accountant?” he grumbles and glares down at the papers.

“And miss out on the infinite joy that is book-keeping?”

Blinking in surprise, Alfie turns to look at Tommy who blows out a cloud of smoke into the warm summer air before glancing over his shoulder at him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  

“Better get to it.”

The little exchange leaves his chest feeling all light and warm, so what does it matter that the numbers on the pages don’t seem to fucking add up when he turns his attention back to them?

Tommy is well into his second cigarette when Alfie groans and slumps back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

“Numbers are a social construct that I from now on fucking refuse to associate with.”

He feels the warmth of Tommy’s body against his arm, and a waft of cigarette smoke seeps into his nostrils as he leans down slightly over the desk.

“It’s supposed to say 325 over there.”

Alfie straightens up as Tommy grabs the pencil, crosses over a sum and writes in a new one. He silently watches him do the same with two others, before putting down the pencil again and blinking down at the papers, seemingly just as surprised as Alfie.

Then he smiles. “Well, I can barely string a sentence together, but I can still count apparently.” He picks up the ledger, eyes still fastened on the pages with a new glint under the blue surface.

“I’ll see if I can sort it out,” he says and makes a move to walk to his own desk.

Alfie pulls him down onto his lap, planting a kiss on his mouth before Tommy can protest.

“Oh there’s no need to be all the way over there, is there, sweetheart?” he grins. “Isn’t this a perfectly good desk, eh? And a much more comfortable seat, if I do say so myself.

“So you’re proposing I just do all my work while sitting on your lap from now on?” Tommy snorts, but stays right where he is.

“Your words not min, love.”

Alfie kisses him again, and when he fumbles to persuade Tommy to let go of the ledger, Tommy quite willingly slips it back onto the desk and buries his hands in his hair instead.

Deepening the kiss, Alfie tugs him a little closer, and Tommy sighs into his mouth, virtually melting against him.

It’s been a long time since he kissed Tommy like this. Weeks probably. Fuck, could be months, even. Maybe not a single time after the accident. Because all he’s though of is how fragile Tommy has felt in his arms, how everything seemed to hurt him. But those thoughts are far from his mind now.

Tommy is breathless when they finally break the kiss, lips swollen and cheeks flushed as he looks at Alfie through his lashes.

“I’ve missed this.”

Humming and pressing a more chaste kiss against his lips, Alfie trails his fingers down his side. “Me too, love. Gotten spoiled, haven’t I? With all these years of having you within arm’s reach at all times.”

Tommy rests his forehead against Alfie’s. “Well, I’m here now. Suppose we have to make up for lost time.”

Alfie kisses him again.

...

That same night, Tommy takes out a book in the bedroom for the first time since the accident. Alfie tries not to make a big deal out of it, but he can’t help asking, none the less.  

“How’s it coming along? The reading.”

“It’s getting better,” Tommy says, holding the book a little closer. “Bit more slowly than I’d like. But it is something.”

Smiling to himself, Alfie picks up his own book and begins to read, still keeping most of his focus on Tommy. That he’s read this particular book upwards of a hundred times already helps.

Tommy’s eyes travel slowly across the pages, his forehead creasing as he focuses on the letters. Trying not to be obvious about his keen interest in this, Alfie continues reading. He still keeps an eye on Tommy though. He’s on that same page for quite a while. Bites his lip and leans down over the book.

Finally, Tommy straightens up a bit. Chews at his bottom lip for a moment. Then he points at a word and holds up the book for Alfie to see.

“What does it say here?”

“Epiphany,” Alfie answers with feigned casualty, all while his heart is beating double its usual rate in his chest out of pure joy.

Tommy nods and continues reading. As the minutes pass, he slowly creeps closer to Alfie: Leans in against his side. Rests his head on his shoulder. Lets out a pleased sigh when Alfie wraps an arm around him to hold him.

He asks about a few more words, and Alfie sees that same hesitation each time. Sees how much of an effort every question takes.

But he does asks.

…

It becomes routine after that. Going to the office. Staying a bit longer each day. Picking up that same book each night. Alfie still takes out his own book too, but mostly uses it to cover up the way he intently watches Tommy make progress in his own.

Eventually, Tommy doesn’t have to ask out loud about anymore when he’s unsure about a word, but will just point at it and Alfie instinctively tells him what it says. Sometimes, if it’s been a bad day, Alfie reads instead, running his finger along the words on the page to let Tommy follow along in the text.  

The improvement is slow. But there is an improvement.

One night, Tommy has just drifted off against his shoulder with the book hanging from a slack grip. He’s almost finished the chapter this time.

And Alfie realises he hasn’t had to ask about a single word today.

 ...

_“--- You’re just afraid of taking that tooth out,” Lasse exclaims. “Let me tie a string around it and it’ll be over and done with.”_

_“I’d like to see you try,” Olle mutters and clutches his cheek.”_

Alfie stops outside of Charlie’s room to listen to the voices.

“Papa, why do tooths fall out?”

“Because you have other teeth underneath that want to get out.”

“Why?”

Silence.

“Know what, love, I’m not sure. But maybe we can find someone to ask.”

Alfie lingers there in the hallway, listening to the exchange with a fond smile on his face and forgetting all about whatever he was doing just a minute ago. He opens the door enough to peek into the dimly lit room to see his husband and son curled up together on the bed. Charlie is on Tommy’s lap, with Horse’s paw firmly clutched in one hand and the other holding onto the front of Tommy’s shirt. He tugs at that now.

“And new tooths will be there always?”

“Sure. As long as we take care of them,” Tommy answers and kisses the top of his head.

_As long as you don’t get them pulled out by a rival gang leader in some dark alley…_

Apparently sensing his presence by now, Tommy glances up. “Are you coming in, or do you just plan on standing in the doorway?”  
“Nah, got bread in the oven that needs tending to,” Alfie says. “Always something that needs doing, innit? The job of a hardworking husband is never done, see. A round the clock work, providing for you two. Which I’m more than happy to do, of course.”  

Tommy shakes his head and smiles down at the book. “Just go. We’re eternally grateful for your loving care.”

“We are!” Charlie chimes in.

Alfie goes downstairs to fulfill said duties, starting off by checking on the bread, before going about washing up the last of the dishes from dinner.

Some time later, Cyril comes lumbering into the kitchen, seating himself next to Alfie to watch him take the bread out of the oven. Most likely hoping for something to fall on the floor.

It’s about then Tommy comes downstairs too, going straight for the kitchen door without a word.

Mildly surprised, Alfie goes after him, out into the cooling air of the late spring evening.

“Something on your mind, love?”

Tommy exhales a cloud of smoke and watches as it rises towards the sky. It dissipates in the light breeze, turning into small tendrils that finally disappear completely. Two blackbirds are occupying themselves with traversing the lawn in search of worms. One of them looks up. Cocks its head at Alfie. Oddly intelligent looking, right then. It chirps, the bright sound echoing in the quiet garden.

“I still get headaches,” Tommy says, finally. “ Every fucking night. It’s not getting better.”

Alfie shouldn’t feel this disappointed _–discouraged, dejected?_. He really shouldn’t. Things have been going far too smoothly, haven’t they? He should’ve known better. Not gotten his hopes up. He attempts to look at ease when he answers.

“Something to talk to the doctor about at the checkup tomorrow, innit? ” his tongue feels oddly… numb in his mouth. Too big for it. “Good for him to have at least something to work with. That’s what we’re paying him for, right? To fix things. Not just…” he’s forgotten to breathe throughout that whole sentence, and the words take that last bit of air and he ends up trailing off, filling his lunges rather than finishing the train of thought.

Putting the cigarette between his lips again, Tommy closes his eyes and fills his lungs with more smoke. It comes out as a cloud together with the words.

“Thought it’d sort itself out, when… the rest got better.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “It’s just impossible not to think about it, that something’s broken in there. Might be as good as it’ll ever get, this.” He blinks rapidly a few times, letting out a mirthless laugh as he stubs out the cigarette. “Maybe I should be grateful. Learn to live with it.”

Alfie wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him in against his side. Tommy’s head comes to rest on his shoulder.

The two blackbirds have taken to the branches of the oak tree now. Hidden among the leaves and gone from sight, but the chirping still fills the garden.

Alfie closes his eyes and listens to it.

...

Alfie and the doctor -whose name he’s never bothered to learn despite having more frequent contact with him than any person should realistically have these past few months- well, they have developed this sort of mutual understanding. He doesn’t question it when it’s always Alfie calling to ask about Tommy’s health: if he can start riding soon, for how long he can read each day... Alfie, in turn, does his best to be civil and not fucking punch him in the face. So he gets to sit in during the examination the next day, under the condition that he stays quiet -something Tommy makes very clear on their way there.

The doctor asks questions. Shines a light into Tommy’s eyes. Asks more questions. Has him look at a board full of letters. More questions. How exactly he’s supposed to say anything about the state of Tommy’s head just from this, Alfie’s got no fucking idea. But he’s not a doctor, is he?

“And how is your speech?” The doctor glances up at Tommy from his board.

“It’s fine. Most of the time.”

“And your memory?”

“It’s getting better. I still… get these gaps sometimes. But it’s better.”

The doctor hums and writes this down.

“And you say the headache gets progressively worse throughout the day.”

Tommy nods.

“Do you experience any of the other repercussions on a daily basis? Loss of motor skills and so on?”

“Comes and goes. Not enough to be a problem.”

God, how many fucking question can there be?

There’s a skeleton propped in the corner of the room, with empty eye sockets and a grinning mouth. Alfie glares at it. Tries to ignore how hard his heart is beating in his chest as he anticipates the doctor’s verdict. Waits for him to deliver the bad news.

_Maybe Tommy is going to die after all? Maybe there’s still something broken in there, just held together by a few tendrils of nerves, and it could break completely at any moment?_

_Or will he just have to live with pain for the rest of his life- and how the fuck is he supposed to survive that?_

_What kind of life would that be?_

Tommy’s hand suddenly brushes over his, just lightly, and Alfie discovers he’s been clenching both of them hard enough to make the knuckles whiten.

He tries to relax his muscles without much success.

There are so many tests and questions that eventually even he becomes dizzy, and he can’t even imagine what Tommy must be feeling then.

Then, the doctor looks up from his clipboard, calm as ever.

“Well, mister Shelby as far as I can see, this problem should be solved by a pair of spectacles.”

Alfie straightens up a bit.

Tommy blinks in confusion. “What?”

“Well, your sight’s a bit impaired. Not by much. But enough to put unnecessary strain on the-“

“No, but- I would’ve noticed that,” Tommy cuts him off.

“Not necessarily,” the doctor replies calmly. “Severe head trauma does strange things to our perception of things. Coupled with your lost reading abilities, it’s not strange at all that you haven’t noticed.”

Alfie can’t really… grasp this… Could it really be that fucking simple? It seems a bit too good to be true… And if this experience has taught him anything, it’s that nothing’s ever _simple._

The doctor is still talking, and he tries to pay attention.

“I will book you in for a full ocular examination and-“

Or is it that fucking simple?

“But of course it’s important that you take care of yourself, none the less. You’re still on the mend. Minimize stress, and overwhelming situations. No reading until- Mister Solomons, are you listening?”

Alfie blinks. The doctor is giving him a sharp look over the edge of his glasses that somehow makes him feel like a school boy. “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

“I was just saying how it’s of utmost importance that  Thomas takes care of himself,” the doctor says sternly. “But if there’s one thing these past months have taught me, it’s that I really should be telling you. That seems to be the only way of making sure my recommendations are actually followed.”

“Of course, yeah, I’ll take good care of him,” Alfie promises, trying to catch Tommy’s eye. But Tommy is staring vacantly down at the floor, silent.

The doctor seems satisfied with this, telling Alfie he’ll be in touch shortly, and then they’re suddenly shaking hands and saying goodbye.

The silence continues during the car ride home.

An odd numbness has settled in Alfie’s chest. He should be happy, right? Everything is okay.

Then why does he feel so fucking empty?

“This is good news, innit?” he eventually says, hoping that saying it out loud will make the words sink in properly.

Tommy nods slowly.

Something happens to his breathing. It slows down, becomes deeper. Raspy. He stares at the road ahead, the vacant look in his eyes washing all signs of awareness from his face.

“Tommy?” Alfie slows down and reaches over to place a hand on his thigh. Tommy flinches.

“Stop the car.”

Alfie drives the car to the side of the road, Tommy climbs out and slumps down over a fence, head hanging and arms shaking as they rest on the wooden boards. Following as quick as he can, Alfie comes to stand next to him, resting a hand on his back.

“Tommy, love, you alright?”

Still shaking, Tommy buries his fingers in his hair. Gasps for breaths. Hides his face from view. Despite having witnessed similar things many times before, Alfie fights not to start shaking him in hopes of snapping him out of it.

When small, muffled sounds begin escaping  Tommy’s lips, Alfie gently guides his face upwards. Tears are seeping down her cheeks. But he’s smiling.

“It’s- it’s nothing. I’ve been so fucking worried.. and it’s nothing.” Tommy laughs, wiping away the tears with the heel of his hand. “Just need a pair of fucking glasses.”

That’s when Alfie finally realises why he’s feeling so odd; because that knot of worry that’s been tied around his insides for so long is gone. And he’s completely forgotten what it feels like, not having it there. How it feels to actually breathe, feel something fully and not have that worry lacing every other emotion.

He wraps both arms around Tommy’s waist and lifts him off his feet, hugging him tightly and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Laughs until he's out of air, because the feeling bubbling in his chest needs to find an outlet. 

“It’s okay, Alfie. Everything will be okay.”

Sure it is. That’s what Alfie’s been saying all along, right? He should say it again, because Tommy seems to be crying, still. Harder now. Convulsively.

It takes for Tommy to start hushing him softly and card his fingers through his hair for Alfie to realise it’s him making those sounds, that at some point, the laughter has turned into sobs.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Alfie straightens up, just enough to lean his forehead against Tommy’s, hands coming to cup his cheeks.

“I know, love,” he whispers. “I know.”

 

 

_Epilogue_

“I’m gonna live in hay.”

Charlie swings his arm back and forth as they walk towards the stables. Alfie swings his along, occasionally raising it enough to lift Charlie off his feet, making him squeal with laughter.

He chuckles, looking down at Charlie. “Really? Live, eh?”

“Yes. You and papa too. Edi and Cyril. And Arfer and-” Charlie lists the entire extended family.

“Well your father would probably like to do that. Not in the hay perhaps, but in the stables. Isn’t it enough you get to be in it every once in a while? Think you’d get a little bored eventually.”

“Never ever,” Charlie says and shakes his head. Alfie would bet good money on having waited well over four months for the hay to finally be brought indoors being influential on this certainty. He’s equally sure that come the end of September, Charlie will have lost interest in the hayloft. Until next summer. But until then, he can look forward to a few weeks when all that’s on the agenda is activities involving hay. God help them when one of the Shelby’s let it slip that they used to build tunnels in the hay at Charlie’s yard when they were little. He distinctly remembers John telling him of how Tommy had fallen asleep in one of the tunnels and they very nearly didn’t find him…

“But how am I supposed to cook? Or should we eat hay, like the horses?”

“No,” Charlie giggles. “You’re being silly.”

They pass one of the pastures, and Charlie looks intently at the horses grazing in the distance.

Then he tugs at Alfie’s hand.

“When can I ride the big horses?”

“Well, when you’re tall enough to actually get up on one, how does that sound?”

“But I’m tall!” Charlie insists and gets up on his tiptoes for increased effect. “Almost as tall as papa.”

Alfie chuckles, “That’s not saying a lot, love.”

“Almost as tall as uncle Finn!” Charlie walks on his tiptoes for a little bit. Then he catches sight of May, leading Astrades across the stable yard and he pulls at Alfie’s hand to make him walk faster. May sees them and stands there waiting as Charlie more or less drags Alfie across the yard.

“Morning Charlie,” May smiles.  
“Morning!” Charlie looks up at the horse with shining eyes. “Can I please pet the horse, please?”

“Of course. It’s a little bit your horse, isn’t it?”

Alfie lifts Charlie up into his arms to allow him to pet the horse. That ought to keep him occupied for a bit, so he turns his attention to May

“Where’s Tommy then? Hiding out in the office, is he, despite the weather? Would be just like him.” 

May’s gaze flickers a little and she clears her throat. “Not really.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she nods towards one of the pastures. The largest one, where they train the race horses.

Alfie has decidedly had enough heart stopping moments to last a lifetime already. For fucks sake, he’s getting on in age, can’t be constantly experiencing these little miniature heart attacks…

A black horse that he would recognize anywhere is absolutely flying over the grass at the far edge of the enclosure.

“Bloody hell.”

“Bloody hell!” Charlie mimics enthusiastically, turning his attention away from the horse and towards the enclosure, eyes growing as big as saucers as he tugs at Alfie’s beard. “Look, papa is riding!”

“Sure is,” Alfie grumbles, his forehead already setting into a deep frown. He gives May a look. “Thought we’d finally agreed upon selling that fu- that horse?” _Or shooting it…_ “Or… you know, at least not having Tommy ride it?”

And he was also pretty sure that when Tommy said he’d been riding a bit for the past month, _this_ was not what he meant.

“Tommy insisted we keep him,” May says. “And he’s a completely different horse now you wouldn’t believe-“ her eyes light up, the way Tommy’s always does when he talks about horses, but when she sees Alfie’s frown, she cuts herself off and turns to Charlie. “Know what sweetie, how about you come with me and brush Astrades mane?” May asks and ruffles Charlie’s hair. “Think your fathers need to talk a little. And then we can go take a look at the hayloft.”

She gives Alfie a questioning look, to which he responds with a nod. Always eager to be near one of the horses, Charlie happily takes May by the hand and follows her into the stables. Cyril, who’s trailed silently by their side, goes to sleep by the stable wall, on his favourite tuft of grass. So that leaves Alfie to go down towards the pasture.  

Sometimes he forgets how fast the horses are. Sure he’s seen more races than he can count over the years, but it’s different when it’s Tommy up on one of them, rather than one of their jockeys. He’s set on being pissed off -worry tends to do that to him. But when he reaches the fence and watches Tommy ride Azra down the length of the far edge of the field… All the fragility that plagued his every motion those first months is washed away when he’s up on that horse. Now he just looks strong. And so fucking happy. When he sees that, it’s hard to stay angry.

Alfie reluctantly has to admit that they were right, May and Tommy: it’s a fine horse.

Not that he’s about to let Tommy know, of course.

When Tommy sees him, he easily slows Azra to a trot. As he comes closer, Alfie can’t quite keep the frown in place. Hair windswept and cheeks flushed from the ride, Tommy makes for quite the sight. Then he smiles at him –one of those smiles that light up an entire room. And any plans Alfie might have had of being truly disapproving of this little stunt seem entirely unimportant.

Alfie waits until he’s close enough before he speaks. No yelling around that fucking horse…

“Now, when you said riding- Tommy, my dove, I just sort of presumed you meant some light trotting. There’s a bit of a difference between that and fucking… dashing around at break neck speed, wouldn’t you say?” 

Tommy laughs. Fucking laughs. This bright, happy, sound that bubbles up from the pit of his stomach.

“Oh that was nothing. You should see him up on the track…” he nods towards the training course. 

“Should I, now? Or will that just bring me even closer to an early grave?” Alfie grumbles. 

“Stop sulking and give me a hand,” Tommy chuckles and beckons him closer. “Just in case I swoon a little.”

Alfie complies of course, heaving himself over the fence and approaching the horse slowly, hoping he doesn’t exude some sort of nervous energy. When he’s close enough, Tommy swings a leg over the saddle and slides off the horse, Alfie’s hands coming up around his waist to steady him. Just in case. But Tommy lands smoothly on the ground. Alfie casts a suspicious glance at Azra, who just blinks calmly, before occupying himself with a grass tuft.

“I have two complaints, alright?” Alfie states. “Just two of them, and that’s generous of me, mind you. One, the speed. Two, this fucking horse.” He tries to sound firm, willing to turn this into a fight if he has too. But Tommy just smiles.

“Well then I have two things to say to you, One, I’ve ridden faster on a trafficked Birmingham street-“ Well that’s a story Alfie needs to hear. Or not. Probably not. What you don’t know won’t hurt you- “Two, this horse wouldn’t hurt a fly.”  
As if someone up there just wants to offer an input, there’s a loud crash from somewhere by the stables. Alfie takes a step back instinctively, pulling Tommy away from the horse and tightly against his chest. _Why are there always fucking noises everywhere…_   Azra just calmly keeps eating. He looks up for a moment, mouth full of grass. Gives Alfie a decidedly judgmental look that reminds him an eerie amount of Tommy. Then he lowers his head again.

Tommy gives him similarly pointed look. An ‘I told you so’- look.

Alfie really should insist that these little riding adventures are put on hold for a few months yet. Preferably to the distant future of never.

He should insist that they sell this fucking horse.

He should insist that Tommy thinks of his head and the sort of damage falling off could do.

Yeah, there are a lot of things he should insist on.

But Tommy is so happy. It’s as if this light is shining all the way from inside his chest, making his eyes sparkle and his smile so bright it completely melts his heart … And fuck, he knew this, didn’t he? Knew it from the very moment Tommy stepped into his office, all those years ago. Tommy will always need some danger in his life. Risks. Something that makes the adrenaline start pumping. If it’s not Birmingham gangsters or the fucking mafia, it’s a hot blooded horse. Tommy suffocates without it. This is a safer option than all those other things… And it doesn’t leave his eyes all hollowed out and lined with dark circles, or his jaw permanently clenched tight. He looks at Tommy, who drags a hand through his windswept hair, trying in vain to get it in order. waiting for his reaction.

Can’t seem to stop smiling today, can he?

Yeah, this sort of danger is one Alfie can live with. 

“Well… if you fucking say so,” he grumbles. “Just… be careful. Mind your head and all that.”

Tommy feigns a look of shock, grabbing his shoulders. “Who are you, calm reasonable man, and what have you done to my husband?”

Alfie bites the inside of his cheek to keep the scowl in place. Tommy pulls out the glasses from his inner pocket, studying him thoroughly from behind the round steel frames. “No, it really is you. Or is there an unknown brother I know nothing about? Are you some sort of impostor?”

Alfie gives up and barks out a laugh, pulling him closer and pressing a kiss against those smiling lips.

“I’m a married man, I can’t go around kissing strangers in open fields-“ Tommy mumbles. “And my husband is a real brute. God knows what he’ll do if he-“ Alfie deepens the kiss, effectively swallowing the rest of that sentence.

But it’s very hard to kiss someone when you’re laughing so hard you’re nearly choking.

“You’ll be the fucking death of me.” He wipes away a tear and tries in vain to catch his breath and cradles Tommy’s face between his hands. Smiles at him, and is rewarded with a bright smile in return.  

The glasses suit him. They frame his eyes in a very becoming way. 

Azra nudges Tommy’s cheek, demanding attention. Alfie shoots him a glare.

“I need to cool him off,” Tommy says. “You can go up to the office. I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Nah, think I’m just going to sit here and watch. You make for quite a sight,” Alfie runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair, very purposefully messing it up even further. “See, I like it when your hair gets all wind swept like this. And your cheeks get a bit of colour. Something about this debouched look really does it for me.”

“You’re impossible,” Tommy rolls his eyes, kisses him again, and then swings himself up in the saddle with such ease that it leaves Alfie speechless for a moment. “Well, stay then. It won’t take long.”

Alfie stands by the fence watching, feeling perfectly content to do nothing but that for the time being. Now when Tommy  is just trotting, the scene exudes nothing but peace. He happily lets himself sink into that same feeling.

A dog barking makes Alfie tear his eyes away from Tommy for a moment, to see Charlie and Cyril come down the hill towards them. May is stood up on the yard, keeping a watchful eye on them, and Alfie waves at her to show that he’s got it from here.

“Daddy, there’s lots lots of hay! I’m gonna jump from really high- climb and then jump,” Charlie babbles when he’s close enough. Alfie catches him as he throws himself into his arms.

“I bet you are.”

Charlie watches with wide eyed fascination as Tommy rides alongside the far edge of the pasture. Then he screws his face up, and tugs at Alfie’s sleeve.

“Is that the mean horse?”

“His name is Azra,” Alfie tells him. “Remember what we talked about, eh?”  

Charlie nods slowly.

“Not mean. Just scared. Papa said so.”   

Hoisting him up a little higher in his arms, Alfie presses a kiss against his temple.

“Yeah, that’s right, innit,” he says, perching Charlie on the fence to give him a good view of the pasture. They both look as Tommy brings Azra around at the farthest corner, riding him back along the fence. “Horses are only dangerous if they’re scared or hurt,” Alfie continues. “You’ve got to show them they’re safe. Teach them to trust you and all that. And it can take a really long time, so you’ve got to be patient. Take care of them”

Charlie nods thoughtfully, his tiny fingers grabbing onto Alfie’s beard as he considers this. Then, he cocks his head a little, eyes still fastened on Azra. “Horse isn’t scared now,” he decides. “He’s happy. Happy horse.”

He waves eagerly at Tommy, who reciprocates and veers off from his path to ride Azra towards the gate.

Alfie thinks again of how fucking lucky he got.

“Yeah.” He smiles. “I think so too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: there you have it! The conclusion. Is anyone surprised there’s a happy ending? I’m guessing no. You know that’s how I roll.
> 
> I’d love to hear your thoughts and feelings not only on the chapter but of the story as a whole. It’s the longest one I’ve written, and it’s definitely been a challenge. But a mostly enjoyable one! Thank you for reading<3

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts or feelings? Do tell me! 
> 
> Fun fact (Or.. at least a fact) Azra was the name of the winning horse of the Kentucky derby 1892. The more you know. I did a lot of googling for this story. Both concerning horses and head injuries. And race-horse names, which are frequently ridiculous. 
> 
> The next chapter will be posted Tuesday 30/10! If you want to keep up with my comings and goings, read more of my stuff (head canons), or just drop by and say hi, I'm on tumblr (url is whentommymetalfie)


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